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IN  MEMORIAM 

Chester  Harvey  Rowell 


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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


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SILAS  MARNER, 


THE  WEAVER  OF  RAVELOE. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 


'ADAM  BEDE,"    "THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS,"  AND 
"SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LD7E." 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FBANKLIN    8QUAEE. 
1861. 


©a  %  some  ^tutyor. 


ADAM  BEDE.     12mo,  Muslin,  $1  00. 

THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS.      12mo,  Muslin,   $1  00. 
8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE.    8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 


&^«mJ 


PART    I. 


SILAS     MARNER: 

THE  WEAVER  OF  RAVELOE. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

In*  the  days  when  the  spinning-wheels  hummed 
busily  in  the  farmhouses  —  and  even  great  ladies, 
clothed  in  silk  and  thread-lace,  had  their  toy  spin- 
ning-wheels of  polished  oak — there  might  be  seen,  in 
districts  far  away  among  the  lanes,  or  deep  in  the 
bosom  of  the  hills,  certain  pallid  undersized  men,  who, 
by  the  side  of  the  brawny  country-folk,  looked  like 
the  remnants  of  a  disinherited  race.  The  shepherd's 
dog  barked  fiercely  when  one  of  these  alien-looking 
men  appeared  on  the  upland,  dark  against  the  early 
winter  sunset ;  for  what  dog  likes  a  figure  bent  under 
a  heavy  bag  ?  —  and  these  pale  men  rarely  stirred 
abroad  without  that  mysterious  burden.  The  shep- 
herd himself,  though  he  had  good  reason  to  believe 
that  the  bag  held  nothing  but  flaxen  thread,  or  else 
the  long  rolls  of  strong  linen  spun  from  that  thread, 
was  not  quite  sure  that  this  trade  of  weaving,  indis- 
pensable though  it  was,  could  be  carried  on  entirely 
without  the  help  of  the  Evil  One.  In  that  far-off 
time  superstition  clung  easily  round  every  person  or 
thing  that  was  at  all  unwonted,  or  even  intermittent 


M59&470 


6  SILAS  MARNER. 

and  occasional  merely,  like  the  visits  of  the  pedlar 
or  the  knife-grinder.  No  one  knew  where  wander- 
ing men  had  their  homes  or  their  origin ;  and  how 
was  a  man  to  be  explained  unless  you  at  least  knew 
somebody  who  knew  his  father  and  mother  ?  To  the 
peasants  of  old  times,  the  world  outside  their  own  di- 
rect experience  was  a  region  of  vagueness  and  mys- 
tery :  to  their  untra veiled  thought  a  state  of  wander- 
ing was  a  conception  as  dim  as  the  winter  life  of  the 
swallows  that  came  back  with  the  spring ;  and  even  a 
settler,  if  he  came  from  distant  parts,  hardly  ever 
ceased  to  be  viewed  with  a  remnant  of  distrust,  which 
would  have  prevented  any  surprise  if  a  long  course 
of  inoffensive  conduct  on  his  part  had  ended  in  the 
commission  of  a  crime ;  especially  if  he  had  any  repu- 
tation for  knowledge,  or  showed  any  skill  in  handi- 
craft. All  cleverness,  whether  in  the  rapid  use  of 
that  difficult  instrument  the  tongue,  or  in  some  other 
art  unfamiliar  to  villagers,  was  in  itself  suspicious : 
honest  folks,  born  and  bred  in  a  visible  manner,  were 
mostly  not  overwise  or  clever — at  least,  not  beyond 
such  a  matter  as  knowing  the  signs  of  the  weather ; 
and  the  process  by  which  rapidity  and  dexterity  of 
any  kind  were  acquired  was  so  wholly  hidden,  that 
they  partook  of  the  nature  of  conjuring.  In  this  way 
it  came  to  pass  that  those  scattered  linen-weavers — 
emigrants  from  the  town  into  the  country — were  to 
the  last  regarded  as  aliens  by  their  rustic  neighbours, 
and  usually  contracted  the  eccentric  habits  which  be- 
long to  a  state  of  loneliness. 

In  the  early  years  of  this  century,  such  a  linen- 
weaver,  named  Silas  Marner,  worked  at  his  vocation 


SILAS  MARNER.  7 

in  a  stone  cottage  that  stood  among  the  nutty  hedge- 
rows near  the  village  of  Eaveloe,  and  not  far  from  the 
edge  of  a  deserted  stone-pit.  The  questionable  sound 
of  Silas's  loom,  so  unlike  the  natural  cheerful  trotting 
of  the  winnowing  machine,  or  the  simpler  rhythm  of 
the  flail,  had  a  half-fearful  fascination  for  the  Eaveloe 
boys,  who  would  often  leave  off  their  nutting  or  birds' - 
nesting  to  peep  in  at  the  window  of  the  stone  cottage, 
counterbalancing  a  certain  awe  at  the  mysterious  ac- 
tion of  the  loom,  by  a  pleasant  sense  of  scornful  supe- 
riority, drawn  from  the  mockery  of  its  alternating 
noises,  along  with  the  bent,  tread-mill  attitude  of  the 
weaver.  But  sometimes  it  happened  that  Marner, 
pausing  to  adjust  an  irregularity  in  his  thread,  became 
aware  of  the  small  scoundrels,  and,  though  chary  of 
his  time,  he  liked  their  intrusion  so  ill  that  he  would 
descend  from  his  loom,  and,  opening  the  door,  would 
fix  on  them  a  gaze  that  was  always  enough  to  make 
them  take  to  their  legs  in  terror.  For  how  was  it 
possible  to  believe  that  those  large  brown  protuber- 
ant eyes  in  Silas  Marner's  pale  face  really  saw  noth- 
ing very  distinctly  that  was  not  close  to  them,  and  not 
rather  that  their  dreadful  stare  could  dart  cramp,  or 
rickets,  or  a  wry  mouth  at  any  boy  who  happened  to 
be  in  the  rear?  They  had,  perhaps,  heard  their  fa- 
thers and  mothers  hint  that  Silas  Marner  could  cure 
folks'  rheumatism  if  he  had  a  mind,  and  add,  still 
more  darkly,  that  if  you  could  only  speak  the  devil 
fair  enough,  he  might  save  you  the  cost  of  the  doc- 
tor. Such  strange  lingering  echoes  of  the  old  de- 
mon-worship might  perhaps  even  now  be  caught  by 
the  diligent  listener  among  the  grey -haired  peasant- 


8  SILAS  MARNER. 

ry ;  for  the  rude  mind  with  difficulty  associates  the 
idea  of  power  and  benignity.  A  shadowy  conception 
of  power  that  by  much  persuasion  can  be  induced  to 
refrain  from  inflicting  harm,  is  the  shape  most  easily 
taken  by  the  sense  of  the  Invisible  in  the  minds  of 
men  who  have  always  been  pressed  close  by  primi- 
tive wants,  and  to  whom  a  life  of  hard  toil  has  never 
been  illuminated  by  any  enthusiastic  religious  faith. 
To  them  pain  and  mishap  present  a  far  wider  range 
of  possibilities  than  gladness  and  enjoyment:  their 
imagination  is  almost  barren  of  the  images  that  feed 
■desire  and  hope,  but  is  all  overgrown  by  recollections 
that  are  a  perpetual  pasture  to  fear.  "Is  there  any- 
thing you  can  fancy  that  you  would  like  to  eat?" 
I  once  said  to  an  old  labouring  man,  who  was  in  his 
last  illness,  and  who  had  refused  all  the  food  his  wife 
had  offered  him.  "No,"  he  answered,  "I've  never 
been  used  to  nothing  but  common  victual,  and  I  can't 
eat  that."  Experience  had  bred  no  fancies  in  him 
that  could  raise  the  phantasm  of  appetite. 

And  Kaveloe  was  a  village  where  many  of  the  old 
echoes  lingered,  undrowned  by  new  voices.  Not  that 
it  was  one  of  those  barren  parishes  lying  on  the  out- 
skirts of  civilization — inhabited  by  meagre  sheep  and 
thinly-scattered  shepherds :  on  the  contrary,  it  lay  in 
the  rich  central  plain  of  what  we  are  pleased  to  call 
Merry  England,  and  held  farms  which,  speaking  from 
a  spiritual  point  of  view,  paid  highly  desirable  tithes. 
But  it  was  nestled  in  a  snug  well- wooded  hollow,  quite 
an  hour's  journey  on  horseback  from  any  turnpike, 
where  it  was  never  reached  by  the  vibrations  of  the 
coach-horn,  or  of  public  opinion.    It  was  an  important- 


SILAS  MARNER.  9 

looking  village,  with  a  fine  old  church  and  large  church- 
yard in  the  heart  of  it,  and  two  or  three  large  brick- 
and-stone  homesteads,  with  well-walled  orchards  and 
ornamental  weather-cocks,  standing  close  upon  the 
road,  and  lifting  more  imposing  fronts  than  the  rectory, 
which  peeped  from  among  the  trees  on  the  other  side 
of  the  churchyard ; — a  village  which  showed  at  once 
the  summits  of  its  social  life,  and  told  the  practised 
eye  that  there  was  no  great  park  and  manor-house  in 
the  vicinity,  but  that  there  were  several  chiefs  in  Ra- 
veloe  who  could  farm  badly  quite  at  their  ease,  draw- 
ing enough  money  from  their  bad  farming,  in  those 
war  times,  to  live  in  a  rollicking  fashion,  and  keep  a 
jolly  Christmas,  Whitsun,  and  Easter  tide. 

It  was  fifteen  years  since  Silas  Marner  had  first 
come  to  Raveloe ;  he  was  then  simply  a  pallid  young 
man,  with  prominent,  short-sighted  brown  eyes,  whose 
appearance  would  have  had  nothing  strange  for  peo- 
ple of  average  culture  and  experience,  but  for  the  vil- 
lagers near  whom  he  had  come  to  settle  it  had  myste- 
rious peculiarities  which  corresponded  with  the  excep- 
tional nature  of  his  occupation,  and  his  advent  from  an 
unknown  region  called  "  North'ard."  So  had  his  way 
of  life : — he  invited  no  comer  to  step  across  his  door- 
sill,  and  he  never  strolled  into  the  village  to  drink  a 
pint  at  the  Rainbow,  or  to  gossip  at  the  wheel- wright's : 
he  sought  no  man  or  woman,  save  for  the  purposes  of 
his  calling,  or  in  order  to  supply  himself  with  neces- 
saries ;  and  it  was  soon  clear  to  the  Raveloe  lasses  that 
he  would  never  urge  one  of  them  to  accept  him  against 
her  will — quite  as  if  he  had  heard  them  declare  that 
they  would  never  marry  a  dead  man  come  to  life 
A2 


10  SILAS  MARNER. 

again.  This  view  of  Marner's  personality  was  not 
without  another  ground  than  his  pale  face  and  unex- 
ampled eyes ;  for  Jem  Kodney,  the  mole-catcher,  aver- 
red that,  one  evening  as  he  was  returning  homeward, 
he  saw  Silas  Marner  leaning  against  a  stile  with  a 
heavy  bag  on  his  back,  instead  of  resting  the  bag  on 
the  stile  as  a  man  in  his  senses  would  have  done ;  and 
that,  on  coming  up  to  him,  he  saw  that  Marner's  eyes 
were  set  like  ,a  dead  man's,  and  he  spoke  to  him,  and 
shook  him,  and  his  limbs  were  stiff,  and  his  hands 
clutched  the  bag  as  if  they'd  been  made  of  iron ;  but 
just  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  the  weaver  was 
dead,  he  came  all  right  again,  like,  as  you  might  say, 
in  the  winking  of  an  eye,  and  said  "  Good-night,"  and 
walked  off.  All  this  Jem  swore  he  had  seen,  more  by 
token,  that  it  was  the  very  day  he  had  been  mole- 
catching  on  Squire  Cass's  land,  down  by  the  old  saw- 
pit.  Some  said  Marner  must  have  been  in  a  "  fit,"  a 
word  which  seemed  to  explain  things  otherwise  in- 
credible ;  but  the  argumentative  Mr.  Macey,  clerk  of 
the  parish,  shook  his  head,  and  asked  if  any  body  was 
ever  known  to  go  off  in  a  fit  and  not  fall  down.  A 
fit  was  a  stroke,  wasn't  it?  and  it  was  in  the  nature 
of  a  stroke  to  partly  take  away  the  use  of  a  man's 
limbs  and  throw  him  on  the  parish,  if  he'd  got  no  chil- 
dren to  look  to.  No,  no ;  it  was  no  stroke  that  would 
let  a  man  stand  on  his  legs  like  a  horse  between  the 
shafts,  and  then  walk  off  as  soon  as  you  can  say 
M  Gee !"  But  there  might  be  such  a  thing  as  a  man's 
soul  being  loose  from  his  body,  and  going  out  and  in, 
like  a  bird  out  of  its  nest  and  back ;  and  that  was  how 
folks  got  over-wise,  for  they  went  to  school  in  this 


SILAS  MARKER.  11 

shell-less  state  to  those  who  could  teach  them  more 
than  their  neighbours  could  learn  with  their  five  senses 
and  the  parson.  And  where  did  Master  Marner  get 
his  knowledge  of  herbs  from — and  charms,  too,  if  he 
liked  to  give  them  away?  Jem  Eodney's  story  was 
no  more  than  what  might  have  been  expected  by  any- 
body who  had  seen  how  Marner  had  cured  Sally 
Oates,  and  made  her  sleep  like  a  baby,  when  her  heart 
had  been  beating  enough  to  burst  her  body,  for  two 
months  and  more,  while  she  had  been  under  the  doc- 
tor's care.  He  might  cure  more  folks  if  he  would ; 
but  he  was  worth  speaking  fair,  if  it  was  only  to  keep 
him  from  doing  you  a  mischief. 

It  was  partly  to  this  vague  fear  that  Marner  was  in- 
debted for  protecting  him  from  the  persecution  that 
his  singularities  might  have  drawn  upon  him,  but  still 
more  to  the  fact  that,  the  old  linen- weaver  in  the 
neighbouring  parish  of  Tarley  being  dead,  his  handi- 
craft made  him  a  highly  welcome  settler  to  the  richer 
housewives  of  the  district,  and  even  to  the  more  prov- 
ident cottagers,  who  had  their  little  stock  of  yarn  at 
the  year's  end ;  and  their  sense  of  his  usefulness  would 
have  counteracted  any  repugnance  or  suspicion  which 
was  not  confirmed  by  a  deficiency  in  the  quality  or 
the  tale  of  the  cloth  he  wove  for  them.  And  the 
years  had  rolled  on  without  producing  any  change  in 
the  impressions  of  the  neighbours  concerning  Marner, 
except  the  change  from  novelty  to  habit.  At  the  end 
of  fifteen  years  the  Eaveloe  men  said  just  the  same 
thing  about  Silas  Marner  as  at  the  beginning:  they 
did  not  say  them  quite  so  often,  but  they  believed 
them  much  more  strongly  when  they  did  say  them. 


12  SILAS  MAENER. 

There  was  only  one  important  addition  which  the 
years  had  brought :  it  was,  that  Master  Marner  had 
laid  by  a  fine  sight  of  money  somewhere,  and  that  he 
could  buy  up  u  bigger  men"  than  himself. 

But  while  opinion  concerning  him  had  remained 
nearly  stationary,  and  his  daily  habits  had  present- 
ed scarcely  any  visible  change,  Marner's  inward  life 
had  been  a  history  and  a  metamorphosis,  as  that  of 
every  fervid  nature  must  be  when  it  has  fled,  or  been 
condemned,  to  solitude.  His  life,  before  he  came  to 
Eaveloe,  had  been  filled  with  the  movement,  the  men- 
tal activity,  and  the  close  fellowship,  which,  in  that 
day  as  in  this,  marked  the  life  of  an  artisan  early  in- 
corporated in  a  narrow  religious  sect,  where  the  poor- 
est layman  has  the  chance  of  distinguishing  himself 
by  gifts  of  speech,  and  has,  at  the  very  least,  the 
weight  of  a  silent  voter  in  the  government  of  his  com- 
munity. Marner  was  highly  thought  of  in  that  little 
hidden  world,  known  to  itself  as  the  church  assembling 
in  Lantern  Yard ;  he  was  believed  to  be  a  young  man 
of  exemplary  life  and  ardent  faith ;  and  a  peculiar  in- 
terest had  been  centred  in  him  ever  since  he  had  fall- 
en, at  a  prayer-meeting,  into  a  mysterious  rigidity  and 
suspension  of  consciousness,  which,  lasting  for  an  hour 
or  more,  had  been  mistaken  for  death.  To  have 
sought  a  medical  explanation  for  this  phenomenon 
would  have  been  held  by  Silas  himself,  as  well  as  by 
his  minister  and  fellow-members,  a  wilful  self-exclu- 
sion from  the  spiritual  significance  that  might  lie  there- 
in. Silas  was  evidently  a  brother  selected  for  a  pe- 
culiar discipline,  and  though  the  effort  to  interpret  this 
discipline  was  discouraged  by  the  absence,  on  his  part, 


SILAS    MARNER.  13 

of  any  spiritual  vision  during  his  outward  trance,  yet 
it  was  believed  by  himself  and  others  that  its  effect 
was  seen  in  an  accession  of  light  and  fervour.  A  less 
truthful  man  than  he  might  have  been  tempted  into 
the  subsequent  creation  of  a  vision  in  the  form  of  re- 
surgent memory ;  a  less  sane  man  might  have  believed 
in  such  a  creation ;  but  Silas  was  both  sane  and  hon- 
est, though,  as  with  many  honest  and  fervid  men,  cul- 
ture had  not  defined  any  channels  for  his  sense  of 
myster}?-,  and  so  it  spread  itself  over  the  proper  path- 
way of  inquiry  and  knowledge.  He  had  inherited 
from  his  mother  some  acquaintance  with  medicinal 
herbs  and  their  preparation — a  little  store  of  wisdom 
which  she  had  imparted  to  him  as  a  solemn  bequest — 
but  of  late  years  he  had  doubts  about  the  lawfulness 
of  applying  this  knowledge,  believing  that  herbs  could 
have  no  efficacy  without  prayer,  and  that  prayer 
might  suffice  without  herbs ;  so  that  the  inherited  de- 
light he  had  in  wandering  in  the  fields  in  search  of 
foxglove  and  dandelion  and  coltsfoot,  began  to  wear 
to  him  the  character  of  a  temptation. 

Among  the  members  of  his  church  there  was  one 
young  man,  a  little  older  than  himself,  with  whom  he 
had  long  lived  in  such  close  friendship  that  it  was  the 
custom  of  their  Lantern  Yard  brethren  to  call  them 
David  and  Jonathan.  The  real  name  of  the  friend 
was  William  Dane,  and  he,  too,  was  regarded  as  a  shin- 
ing instance  of  youthful  piety,  though  somewhat  given 
to  over-severity  towards  weaker  brethren,  and  to  be  so 
dazzled  by  his  own  light  as  to  hold  himself  wiser  than 
his  teachers.  But  whatever  blemishes  others  might 
discern  in  William,  to  his  friend's  mind  he  was  fault- 


14  SILAS  MARNER. 

less ;  for  Marner  had  one  of  those  impressible  self- 
doubting  natures  which,  at  an  inexperienced  age,  ad- 
mire imperativeness  and  lean  on  contradiction.  The 
expression  of  trusting  simplicity  in  Marner's  face, 
heightened  by  that  absence  of  special  observation, 
that  defenceless,  deer-like  gaze  which  belongs  to  large 
prominent  eyes,  was  strongly  contrasted  by  the  self- 
complacent  suppression  of  inward  triumph  that  lurk- 
ed in  the  narrow  slanting  eyes  and  compressed  lips  of 
"William  Dane.  One  of  the  most  frequent  topics  of 
conversation  between  the  two  friends  was  Assurance 
of  salvation :  Silas  confessed  that  he  could  never  ar- 
rive at  anything  higher  than  hope  mingled  with  fear, 
and  listened  with  longing  wonder,  when  William  de- 
clared that  he  had  possessed  unshaken  assurance  ever 
since,  in  the  period  of  his  conversion,  he  had  dreamed 
that  he  saw  the  words  "calling  and  election  sure" 
standing  by  themselves  on  a  white  page  in  the  open 
Bible.  Such  colloquies  have  occupied  many  a  pair  of 
pale-faced  weavers,  whose  unnurtured  souls  have  been 
like  young  winged  things,  fluttering  forsaken  in  the 
twilight. 

It  had  seemed  to  the  unsuspecting  Silas  that  the 
friendship  had  suffered  no  chill  even  from  his  forma- 
tion of  another  attachment  of  a  closer  kind.  For 
some  months  he  had  been  engaged  to  a  young  servant- 
woman,  waiting  only  for  a  little  increase  to  their  mu- 
tual savings  in  order  to  their  marriage ;  and  it  was  a 
great  delight  to  him  that  Sarah  did  not  object  to  Wil- 
liam's occasional  presence  in  their  Sunday  interviews. 
It  was  at  this  point  of  their  history  that  Silas's  catalep- 
tic fit  occurred  during  the  prayer-meeting ;  and  amidst 


SILAS  MAKNEE.  15 

the  various  queries  and  expressions  of  interest  ad- 
dressed to  him  by  his  fellow-members,  William's  sug- 
gestion alone  jarred  with  the  general  sympathy  to- 
wards a  brother  thus  singled  out  for  special  dealings. 
He  observed  that,  to  him,  this  trance  looked  more  like 
a  visitation  of  Satan  than  a  proof  of  divine  favour, 
and  exhorted  his  friend  to  see  that  he  hid  no  accursed 
thing  within  his  soul.  Silas,  feeling  bound  to  accept 
rebuke  and  admonition  as  a  brotherly  office,  felt  no 
resentment,  but  only  pain,  at  his  friend's  doubts  con- 
cerning him ;  and  to  this  was  soon  added  some  anxi- 
ety at  the  perception  that  Sarah's  manner  towards  him 
began  to  exhibit  a  strange  fluctuation  between  an  ef- 
fort at  an  increased  manifestation  of  regard  and  in- 
voluntary signs  of  shrinking  and  dislike.  He  asked 
her  if  she  wished  to  break  off  their  engagement;  but 
she  denied  this :  their  engagement  was  known  to  the 
church,  and  had  been  recognised  in  the  prayer-meet- 
ings ;  it  could  not  be  broken  off  without  strict  investi- 
gation, and  Sarah  could  render  no  reason  that  would 
be  sanctioned  by  the  feeling  of  the  community.  At 
this  time  the  senior  deacon  was  taken  dangerously  ill, 
and,  being  a  childless  widower,  he  was  tended  night 
and  day  by  some  of  the  younger  brethren  or  sisters. 
Silas  frequently  took  his  turn  in  the  night- watching 
with  "William,  the  one  relieving  the  other  at  two  in 
the  morning.  The  old  man,  contrary  to  expectation, 
seemed  to  be  on  the  way  to  recovery,  when  one  night 
Silas,  sitting  up  by  his  bedside,  observed  that  his  usu- 
ally audible  breathing  had  ceased.  The  candle  was 
burning  low,  and  he  had  to  lift  it  to  see  the  patient's 
face  distinctly.     Examination  convinced  him  that  the 


16  SILAS  MARNER. 

deacon  was  dead — had  been  dead  some  time,  for  the 
limbs  were  rigid.  Silas  asked  himself  if  he  had  been 
asleep,  and  looked  at  the  clock :  it  was  already  four 
in  the  morning.  How  was  it  that  William  had  not 
come?  In  much  anxiety  he  went  to  seek  for  help, 
and  soon  there  were  several  friends  assembled  in  the 
house,  the  minister  among  them,  while  Silas  went  away 
to  his  work,  wishing  he  could  have  met  William  to 
know  the  reason  of  his  non-appearance.  But  at  six 
o'clock,  as  he  was  thinking  of  going  to  seek  his  friend, 
William  came,  and  with  him  the  minister.  They 
came  to  summon  him  to  Lantern  Yard,  to  meet  the 
church  members  there ;  and  to  his  inquiry  concerning 
the  cause  of  the  summons  the  only  reply  was,  "You 
will  hear."  Nothing  further  was  said  until  Silas  was 
seated  in  the  vestry,  in  front  of  the  minister,  with  the 
eyes  of  those  who  to  him  represented  God's  people 
fixed  solemnly  upon  him.  Then  the  minister,  taking 
out  a  pocket-knife,  showed  it  to  Silas,  and  asked  him 
if  he  knew  where  he  had  left  that  knife  ?  Silas  said, 
he  did  not  know  that  he  had  left  it  anywhere  out  of 
his  own  pocket — but  he  was  trembling  at  this  strange 
interrogation.  He  was  then  exhorted  not  to  hide  his 
sin,  but  to  confess  and  repent.  The  knife  had  been 
found  in  the  bureau  by  the  departed  deacon's  bedside 
— found  in  the  place  where  the  little  bag  of  church 
money  had  lain,  which  the  minister  himself  had  seen 
the  day  before.  Some  hand  had  removed  that  bag; 
and  whose  hand  could  it  be,  if  not  that  of  the  man  to 
whom  the  knife  belonged  ?  For  some  time  Silas  was 
mute  with  astonishment:  then  he  said,  "God  will  clear 
me :  I  know  nothing  about  the  knife  being  there,  or 


SILAS  MARKER.  17 

the  money  being  gone.  Search  me  and  my  dwelling : 
you  will  find  nothing  but  three  pound  five  of  my  own 
savings,  which  William  Dane  knows  I  have  had  these 
six  months."  At  this  William  groaned,  but  the  min- 
ister said,  "  The  proof  is  heavy  against  you,  brother 
Marner.  The  money  was  taken  in  the  night  last  past, 
and  no  man  was  with  our  departed  brother  but  you, 
for  William  Dane  declares  to  us  that  he  was  hindered 
by  sudden  sickness  from  going  to  take  his  place  as 
usual,  and  you  yourself  said  that  he  had  not  come ; 
and,  moreover,  you  neglected  the  dead  body." 

"I  must  have  slept,"  said  Silas.  Then,  after  a  pause, 
he  added,  "Or  I  must  have  had  another  visitation  like 
that  which  you  have  all  seen  me  under,  so  that  the 
thief  must  have  come  and  gone  while  I  was  not  in  the 
body,  but  out  of  the  body.  But,  I  say  again,  search 
me  and  my  dwelling,  for  I  have  been  nowhere  else." 

The  search  was  made,  and  it  ended — in  William 
Dane's  finding  the  well-known  bag,  empty,  tucked  be- 
hind the  chest  of  drawers  in  Silas's  chamber!  On  this 
William  exhorted  his  friend  to  confess,  and  not  to  hide 
his  sin  any  longer.  Silas  turned  a  look  of  keen  re- 
proach on  him,  and  said,  "William,  for  nine  years  that 
we  have  gone  in  and  out  together,  have  you  ever 
known  me  to  tell  a  lie  ?     But  God  will  clear  me." 

"Brother,"  said  William,  "how  do  I  know  what  you 
may  have  done  in  the  secret  chambers  of  your  heart, 
to  give  Satan  an  advantage  over  you  ?" 

Silas  was  still  looking  at  his  friend.  Suddenly  a 
deep  flush  came  over  his  face,  and  he  was  about  to 
speak  impetuously,  when  he  seemed  checked  again  by 
some  inward  shock,  that  sent  the  flush  back  and  made 


18  SILAS  MAEXEE. 

him  tremble.     But  at  last  he  spoke  feebly,  looking  at 
"William. 

"  I  remember  now — the  knife  wasn't  in  my  pocket." 
William  said,  "I  know  nothing  of  what  you  mean." 
The  other  persons  present,  however,  began  to  inquire 
where  Silas  meant  to  say  that  the  knife  was,  but  he 
would  give  no  further  explanation:  he  only  said,  "I 
am  sore  stricken ;  I  can  say  nothing.  God  will  clear 
me." 

On  their  return  to  the  vestry  there  was  further  de- 
liberation. Any  resort  to  legal  measures  for  ascertain- 
ing the  culprit  was  contrary  to  the  principles  of  the 
Church :  prosecution  was  held  by  them  to  be  forbid- 
den to  Christians,  even  if  it  had  been  a  case  in  which 
there  was  no  scandal  to  the  community.  But  they 
were  bound  to  take  other  measures  for  finding  out  the 
truth,  and  they  resolved  on  praying  and  drawing  lots. 
This  resolution  can  be  a  ground  of  surprise  only  to 
those  who  are  unacquainted  with  that  obscure  relig- 
ious life  which  has  gone  on  in  the  alleys  of  our  towns. 
Silas  knelt  with  his  brethren,  relying  on  his  own  inno- 
cence being  certified  by  immediate  divine  interference, 
but  feeling  that  there  was  sorrow  and  mourning  be- 
hind for  him  even  then — that  his  trust  in  man  had 
been  cruelly  bruised.  The  lots  declared  that  Silas  Mar- 
iner was  guilty.  He  was  solemnly  suspended  from 
church-membership,  and  called  upon  to  render  up  the 
stolen  money :  only  on  confession,  as  the  sign  of  re- 
pentance, could  he  be  received  once  more  within  the* 
fold  of  the  church.  Marner  listened  in  silence.  At 
last,  when  every  one  rose  to  depart,  he  went  towards 
"William  Dane  and  said,  in  a  voice  shaken  by  agitation — 


SILAS  MARNER.  19 

"  The  last  time  I  remember  using  my  knife,  was 
when  I  took  it  out  to  cut  a  strap  for  you.  I  don't  re- 
member putting  it  in  my  pocket  again.  You  stole  the 
money,  and  you  have  woven  a  plot  to  lay  the  sin  at 
my  door.  But  you  may  prosper,  for  all  that :  there  is 
no  just  God  that  governs  the  earth  righteously,  but 
a  God  of  lies,  that  bears  witness  against  the  inno- 
cent." 

There  was  a  general  shudder  at  this  blasphemy. 

William  said  meekly,  "  I  leave  our  brethren  to  judge 
whether  this  is  the  voice  of  Satan  or  not.  I  can  do 
nothing  but  pray  for  you,  Silas." 

Poor  Marner  went  out  with  that  despair  in  his  soul 
— that  shaken  trust  in  God  and  man,  which  is  little 
short  of  madness  to  a  loving  nature.  In  the  bitterness 
of  his  wounded  spirit,  he  said  to  himself,  "  She  will 
cast  me  off  too."  And  he  reflected  that,  if  she  did  not 
believe  the  testimony  against  him,  her  whole  faith 
must  be  upset,  as  his  was.  To  people  accustomed  to 
reason  about  the  forms  in  which  their  religious  feeling 
has  incorporated  itself,  it  is  difficult  to  enter  into  that 
simple,  untaught  state  of  mind  in  which  the  form  and 
the  feeling  have  never  been  severed  by  an  act  of  re- 
flection. We  are  apt  to  think  it  inevitable  that  a  man 
in  Marner's  position  should  have  begun  to  question 
the  validity  of  an  appeal  to  the  divine  judgment  by 
drawing  lots ;  but  to  him  this  would  have  been  an  ef- 
fort of  independent  thought  such  as  he  had  never 
known ;  and  he  must  have  made  the  effort  at  a  mo- 
ment when  all  his  energies  were  turned  into  the  an- 
guish of  disappointed  faith.  If  there  is  an  angel  who 
records  the  sorrows  of  men  as  well  as  their  sins,  he 


20  SILAS  MAENEE. 

knows  how  many  and  deep  are  the  sorrows  that  spring 
from  false  ideas  for  which  no  man  is  culpable. 

Marner  went  home,  and  for  a  whole  day  sat  alone, 
stunned  by  despair,  without  any  impulse  to  go  to  Sarah 
and  attempt  to  win  her  belief  in  his  innocence.  The 
second  day  he  took  refuge  from  benumbing  unbelief 
by  getting  into  his  loom  and  working  away  as  usual; 
and  before  many  hours  were  past,  the  minister  and 
one  of  the  deacons  came  to  him  with  the  message  from 
Sarah,  that  she  held  her  engagement  to  him  at  an  end. 
Silas  received  the  message  mutely,  and  then  turned 
away  from  the  messengers  to  work  at  his  loom  again. 
In  little  more  than  a  month  from  that  time,  Sarah  was 
married  to  William  Dane ;  and  not  long  afterwards  it 
was  known  to  the  brethren  in  Lantern  Yard  that  Silas 
Marner  had  departed  from  the  town. 


SILAS  MARNER.  21 


CHAPTER  II. 

Even  people  whose  lives  have  been  made  various 
by  learning,  sometimes  find  it  hard  to  keep  a  fast  hold 
on  their  habitual  views  of  life,  on  their  faith  in  the  In- 
visible— nay,  on  the  sense  that  their  past  joys  and  sor- 
rows are  a  real  experience,  when  they  are  suddenly 
transported  to  a  new  land,  where  the  beings  around 
them  know  nothing  of  their  history,  and  share  none 
of  their  ideas — where  their  mother  earth  shows  an- 
other lap,  and  human  life  has  other  forms  than  those 
on  which  their  souls  have  been  nourished.  Minds 
that  have  been  unhinged  from  their  old  faith  and  love, 
have  perhaps  sought  this  Lethean  influence  of  exile, 
in  which  the  past  becomes  dreamy  because  its  symbols 
have  all  vanished,  and  the  present  too  is  dreamy  be- 
cause it  is  linked  with  no  memories.  But  even  their 
experience  may  hardly  enable  them  thoroughly  to 
imagine  what  was  the  effect  on  a  simple  weaver  like 
Silas  Marner,  when  he  left  his  own  country  and  people 
and  came  to  settle  in  Raveloe.  Nothing  could  be  more 
unlike  his  native  town,  set  within  sight  of  the  wide- 
spread hill-sides,  than  this  low,  wooded  region,  where 
he  felt  hidden  even  from  the  heavens  by  the  screening 
trees  and  hedgerows.  There  was  nothing  here,  when 
he  rose  in  the  deep  morning  quiet  and  looked  out  on 
the  dewy  brambles  and  rank  tufted  grass,  that  seemed 
to  have  any  relation  with  that  life  centering  in  Lantern 


22  SILAS   MARNER. 

Yard,  which,  had  once  been  to  him  the  altar-place  of 
high  dispensations.  The  whitewashed  walls ;  the  lit- 
tle pews  where  well-known  figures  entered  with  a 
subdued  rustling,  and  where  first  one  well-known  voice 
and  then  another,  pitched  in  a  peculiar  key  of  petition, 
uttered  phrases  at  once  occult  and  familiar,  like  the 
amulet  worn  on  the  heart ;  the  pulpit  where  the  min- 
ister delivered  unquestioned  doctrine,  and  swayed  to 
and  fro,  and  handled  the  book  in  a  long-accustomed 
manner ;  the  very  pauses  between  the  couplets  of  the 
hymn,  as  it  was  given  out,  and  the  recurrent  swell  of 
voices  in  song :  these  things  had  been  the  channel  of 
divine  influences  to  Marner — they  were  the  fostering 
home  of  his  religious  emotions — they  were  Christianity 
and  God's  kingdom  upon  earth.  A  weaver  who  finds 
hard  words  in  his  hymn-book  knows  nothing  of  ab- 
stractions ;  as  the  little  child  knows  nothing  of  parental 
love,  but  only  knows  one  face  and  one  lap  towards 
which  it  stretches  its  arms  for  refuge  and  nurture. 

And  what  could  be  more  unlike  that  Lantern  Yard 
world  than  the  world  in  Kaveloe  ? — orchards  looking 
lazy  with  neglected  plenty ;  the  large  church  in  the 
wide  churchyard,  which  men  gazed  at  lounging  at 
their  own  doors  in  service-time;  the  purple-faced 
farmers  jogging  along  the  lanes  or  turning  in  at  the 
Eainbow ;  homesteads,  where  men  supped  heavily  and 
slept  in  the  light  of  the  evening  hearth,  and  where 
women  seemed  to  be  laying  up  a  stock  of  linen  for 
the  life  to  come.  There  were  no  lips  in  Eaveloe  from 
which  a  word  could  fall  that  would  stir  Silas  Mar- 
ner's  benumbed  faith  to  a  sense  of  pain.  In  the  early 
ages  of  the  world,  we  know,  it  was  believed  that  each 


SILAS  MARKER.  23 

territory  was  inhabited  and  ruled  by  its  own  divini- 
ties, so  that  a  man  could  cross  the  bordering  heights 
and  be  out  of  the  reach  of  his  native  gods,  whose  pres- 
ence was  confined  to  the  streams  and  the  groves  and 
the  hills  among  which  he  had  lived  from  his  birth. 
And  poor  Silas  was  vaguely  conscious  of  something 
not  unlike  the  feeling  of  primitive  men,  when  they 
fled  thus,  in  fear  or  in  sullenness,  from  the  face  of  an 
unpropitious  deity.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  Power 
in  which  he  had  vainly  trusted  among  the  streets  and 
in  the  prayer-meetings,  was  very  far  away  from  this 
land  in  which  he  had  taken  refuge,  where  men  lived 
in  careless  abundance,  knowing  and  needing  nothing 
of  that  trust,  which,  for  him,  had  been  turned  to  bit- 
terness. The  little  light  he  possessed  spread  its  beams 
so  narrowly,  that  frustrated  belief  was  a  curtain  broad 
enough  to  create  for  him  the  blackness  of  night. 

His  first  movement  after  the  shock  had  been  to 
work  in  his  loom ;  and  he  went  on  with  this  unremit- 
tingly, never  asking  himself  why,  now  he  was  come  to 
Raveloe,  he  worked  far  on  into  the  night  to  finish  the 
tale  of  Mrs.  Osgood's  table-linen  sooner  than  she  ex- 
pected— without  contemplating  beforehand  the  money 
she  would  put  into  his  hand  for  the  work.  He  seem- 
ed to  weave,  like  the  spider,  from  pure  impulse,  with- 
out reflection.  Every  man's  work,  pursued  steadily, 
tends  in  this  way  to  become  an  end  in  itself,  and  so  to 
bridge  over  the  loveless  chasms  of  his  life.  Silas's 
hand  satisfied  itself  with  throwing  the  shuttle,  and  his 
eye  with  seeing  the  little  squares  in  the  cloth  complete 
themselves  under  his  effort.  Then  there  were  the 
calls  of  hunger ;  and  Silas,  in  his  solitude,  had  to  pro- 


24  SILAS  MARKER. 

vide  his  own  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper,  to  fetch 
his  own  water  from  the  well,  and  put  his  own  kettle 
on  the  fire ;  and  all  these  immediate  promptings  help- 
ed, along  with  the  weaving,  to  reduce  his  life  to  the 
unquestioning  activity  of  a  spinning  insect.  He  hated 
the  thought  of  the  past ;  there  was  nothing  that  called 
out  his  love  and  fellowship  toward  the  strangers  he 
had  come  amongst;  and  the  future  was  all  dark, 
for  there  was  no  Unseen  Love  that  cared  for  him. 
Thought  was  arrested  by  utter  bewilderment,  now  its 
old  narrow  pathway  was  closed,  and  affection  seemed 
to  have  died  under  the  bruise  that  had  fallen  on  its 
keenest  nerves. 

But  at  last  Mrs.  Osgood's  table-linen  was  finished, 
and  Silas  was  paid  in  gold.  His  earnings  in  his  na- 
tive town,  where  he  worked  for -a  wholesale  dealer, 
had  been  after  a  lower  rate ;  he  had  been  paid  week- 
ly, and  of  his  weekly  earnings  a  large  proportion  had 
gone  to  objects  of  piety  and  charity.  Now,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  he  had  five  bright  guineas  put 
into  his  hand ;  no  man  expected  a  share  of  them,  and 
he  loved  no  man  that  he  should  offer  him  a  share. 
But  what  were  the  guineas  to  him,  who  saw  no  vista 
beyond  countless  days  of  weaving  ?  It  was  needless 
for  him  to  ask  that,  for  it  was  pleasant  to  him  to  feel 
them  in  his  palm,  and  look  at  their  bright  faces,  which 
were  all  his  own :  it  was  another  element  of  life,  like 
the  weaving  and  the  satisfaction  of  hunger,  subsisting 
quite  aloof  from  the  life  of  belief  and  love  from  which 
he  had  been  cut  off.  The  weaver's  hand  had  known 
the  touch  of  hard-won  money  even  before  the  palm 
had  grown  to  its  full  breadth ;  for  twenty  years,  mys- 


SILAS  MARNEK.  25 

terious  money  had  stood  to  him  as  the  symbol  of 
earthly  good  and  the  immediate  object  of  toil.  He 
had  seemed  to  love  it  little  in  the  years  when  every 
penny  had  its  purpose  for  him ;  for  he  loved  the  pur- 
pose then.  But  now,  when  all  purpose  was  gone,  that 
habit  of  looking  towards  the  money  and  grasping  it 
with  a  sense  of  fulfilled  effort  made  a  loam  that  was 
deep  enough  for  the  seeds  of  desire;  and  as  Silas 
walked  homeward  across  the  fields  in  the  twilight,  he 
drew  out  the  money,  and  thought  it  was  brighter  in 
the  gathering  gloom. 

About  this  time  an  incident  happened  which  seem- 
ed to  open  a  possibility  of  some  fellowship  with  his 
neighbours.  One  day,  taking  a  pair  of  shoes  to  be 
mended,  he  saw  the  cobbler's  wife  seated  by  the  fire, 
suffering  from  the  terrible  symptoms  of  heart-disease 
and  dropsy,  which  he  had  witnessed  as  the  precursors 
of  his  mother's  death.  He  felt  a  rush  of  pity  at  the 
mingled  sight  and  remembrance,  and,  recalling  the  re- 
lief his  mother  had  founcl  from  a  simple  preparation 
of  foxglove,  he  promised  Sally  Oates  to  bring  her 
something  that  would  ease  her,  since  the  doctor  did 
her  no  good.  In  this  office  of  charity,  Silas  felt,  for 
the  first  time  since  he  had  come  to  Eaveloe,  a  sense 
of  unity  between  his  past  and  present  life,  which 
might  have  been  the  beginning  of  his  rescue  from  the 
insect-like  existence  into  which  his  nature  had  shrunk. 
But  Sally  Oates's  disease  had  raised  her  into  a  person- 
age of  much  interest  and  importance  among  the  neigh- 
bours, and  the  fact  of  her  having  found  relief  from 
drinking  Silas  Marner's  "stuff"  became  a  matter  of 
general  discourse.    When  Doctor  Kimble  gave  phys- 

B 


26  SILAS  MARNER. 

ic,  it  was  natural  that  it  should  have  an  effect ;  but 
when  a  weaver,  who  came  from  nobody  knew  where, 
worked  wonders  with  a  bottle  of  brown  waters,  the 
occult  character  of  the  process  was  evident.  Such  a 
sort  of  thing  had  not  been  known  since  the  Wise 
Woman  at  Tarlej  died ;  and  she  had  charms  as  well 
as  "  stuff:"  everybody  went  to  her  when  their  chil- 
dren had  fits.  Silas  Marner  must  be  a  person  of  the 
same  sort,  for  how  did  he  know  what  would  bring 
back  Sally  Oates's  breath,  if  he  didn't  know  a  fine 
sight  more  than  that  ?  The  Wise  Woman  had  words 
that  she  muttered  to  herself,  so  that  you  couldn't  hear 
what  they  were ;  and  if  she  tied  a  bit  of  red  thread 
round  the  child's  toe  the  while,  it  would  keep  off  the 
water  in  the  head.  There  were  women  in  Eaveloe, 
at  that  present  time,  who  had  worn  one  of  the  Wise 
Woman's  little  bags  round  their  necks,  and,  in  conse- 
quence, had  never  had  an  idiot  child,  as  Ann  Coulter 
had.  Silas  Marner  could  very  likely  do  as  much,  and 
more ;  and  now  it  was  all  clear  how  he  should  have 
come  from  unknown  parts,  and  be  so  "  comical-look- 
ing." But  Sally  Oates  must  mind  and  not  tell  the 
doctor,  for  he  would  be  sure  to  set  his  face  against 
Marner :  he  was  always  angry  about  the  Wise  Wom- 
an, and  used  to  threaten  those  who  went  to  her  that 
they  should  have  none  of  his  help  any  more. 

Silas  now  found  himself  and  his  cottage  suddenly 
beset  by  mothers  who  wanted  him  to  charm  away  the 
hooping-cough,  or  bring  back  the  milk,  and  by  men 
who  wanted  stuff  against  rheumatics  or  the  knots  in 
the  hands ;  and,  to  secure  themselves  against  a  refu- 
sal, the  applicants  brought  their  silver  in  their  palms. 


SILAS  MARjSTER.  27 

Silas  might  have  driven  a  profitable  trade  in  charms 
as  well  as  in  his  small  list  of  drugs ;  but  money  on 
this  condition  was  no  temptation  to  him:  he  had 
never  known  an  impulse  towards  falsity,  and  he  drove 
one  after  another  away  with  growing  irritation,  for 
the  news  of  him  as  a  wise  man  had  spread  even  to 
Tarley,  and  it  was  long  before  people  ceased  to  take 
long  walks  for  the  sake  of  asking  his  aid.  But  the 
hope  in  his  wisdom  was  at  length  changed  into  dread, 
for  no  one  believed  him  when  he  said  he  knew  no 
charms  and  could  work  no  cures,  and  every  man  and 
woman  who  had  an  accident  or  a  new  attack  after  ap- 
plying to  him,  set  the  misfortune  down  to  Master 
Marner's  ill-will  and  irritated  glances.  Thus  it  came 
to  pass  that  his  movement  of  pity  towards  Sally  Oates, 
which  had  given  him  a  transient  sense  of  brotherhood, 
heightened  the  repulsion  between  him  and  his  neigh- 
bours, and  made  his  isolation  more  complete. 

Gradually  the  guineas,  the  crowns,  and  the  half- 
crowns,  grew  to  a  heap,  and  Marner  drew  less  and  less 
for  his  own  wants,  trying  to  solve  the  problem  of 
keeping  himself  strong  enough  to  work  sixteen  hours 
a-day  on  as  small  an  outlay  as  possible.  Have  not 
men,  shut  up  in  solitary  imprisonment,  found  an  in- 
terest in  marking  the  moments  by  straight  strokes  of 
a  certain  length  on  the  wall,  until  the  growth  of  the 
sum  of  straight  strokes,  arranged  in  triangles,  has  be- 
come a  mastering  purpose?  Do  we  not  wile  away 
moments  of  inanity  or  fatigued  waiting  by  repeating 
some  trivial  movement  or  sound,  until  the  repetition 
has  bred  a  want,  which  is  incipient  habit?  That  will 
help  us  to  understand  how  the  love  of  accumulating 


28  SILAS  MARNEK. 

money  grows  an  absorbing  passion  in  men  whose  im- 
aginations, even  in  the  very  beginning  of  their  hoard, 
showed  them  no  purpose  beyond  it.  Marner  wanted 
the  heaps  of  ten  to  grow  into  a  square,  and  then  into 
a  larger  square;  and  every  added  guinea,  while  it 
was  itself  a  satisfaction,  bred  a  new  desire.  In  this 
strange  world,  made  a  hopeless  riddle  to  him,  he 
might,  if  he  had  had  a  less  intense  nature,  have  sat 
weaving,  weaving — looking  towards  the  end  of  his 
pattern,  or  towards  the  end  of  his  web,  till  he  forgot 
the  riddle,  and  everything  else  but  his  immediate  sen- 
sations; but  the  money  had  come  to  mark  off  his 
weaving  into  periods,  and  the  money  not  only  grew, 
but  it  remained  with  him.  He  began  to  think  it  was 
conscious  of  him,  as  his  loom  was,  and  he  would  on 
no  account  have  exchanged  those  coins,  which  had  be- 
come his  familiars,  for  other  coins  with  unknown 
faces.  He  handled  them,  he  counted  them,  till  their 
form  and  colour  were  like  the  satisfaction  of  a  thirst 
to  him ;  but  it  was  only  in  the  night,  when  his  work 
was  done,  that  he  drew  them  out  to  enjoy  their  com- 
panionship. He  had  taken  up  some  bricks  in  his 
floor  underneath  his  loom,  and  here  he  had  made  a 
hole  in  which  he  set  the  iron  pot  that  contained  his 
guineas  and  silver  coins,  covering  the  bricks  with  sand 
whenever  he  replaced  them.  Not  that  the  idea  of 
being  robbed  presented  itself  often  or  strongly  to  his 
mind :  hoarding  was  common  in  country  districts  in 
those  days ;  there  were  old  labourers  in  the  parish  of 
Eaveloe  who  were  known  to  have  their  savings  by 
them,  probably  inside  their  flock-beds ;  but  their  rus- 
tic neighbours,  though  not  all  of  them  as  honest  as 


SILAS  MARNER.  29 

their  ancestors  in  the  days  of  King  Alfred,  had  not 
imaginations  bold  enough  to  lay  a  plan  of  burglary. 
How  could  they  have  spent  the  money  in  their  own 
village  without  betraying  themselves  ?  They  would 
be  obliged  to  "run  away" — a  course  as  dark  and 
dubious  as  a  balloon  journey. 

So,  year  after  year,  Silas  Marner  had  lived  in  this 
solitude,  his  guineas  rising  in  the  iron  pot,  and  his- 
life  narrowing  and  hardening  itself  more  and  more 
into  a  mere  pulsation  of  desire  and  satisfaction  that 
had  no  relation  to  any  other  being.  His  life  had  re- 
duced itself  to  the  mere  functions  of  weaving  and 
hoarding,  without  any  contemplation  of  an  end  to- 
wards which  the  functions  tended.  The  same  sort  of 
process  has  perhaps  been  undergone  by  wiser  men, 
when  they  have  been  cut  off  from  faith  and  love — 
only,  instead  of  a  loom  and  a  heap  of  guineas,  they 
have  had  some  erudite  research,  some  ingenious  proj- 
ect, or  some  well-knit  theory.  Strangely  Marner's 
face  and  figure  shrank  and  bent  themselves  into  a 
constant  mechanical  relation  to  the  objects  of  his  life, 
so  that  he  produced  the  same  sort  of  impression  as  a 
handle  or  a  crooked  tube,  which  has  no  meaning 
standing  apart.  The  prominent  eyes  that  used  to  look 
trusting  and  dreamy,  now  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
made  to  see  only  one  kind  of  thing  that  was  very 
small,  like  tiny  grain,  for  which  they  hunted  every- 
where; and  he  was  so  withered  and  yellow,  that, 
though  he  was  not  yet  forty,  the  children  always 
called  him  "  Old  Master  Marner." 

Yet  even  in  this  stage  of  withering  a  little  incident 
happened,  which  showed  that  the  sap  of  affection  was 


SO  SILAS  MARNER. 

not  all  gone.  It  was  one  of  his  daily  tasks  to  fetch 
his  water  from  a  well  a  couple  of  fields  off,  and  for 
this  purpose,  ever  since  he  came  to  Eaveloe,  he  had 
had  a  brown  earthenware  pot,  which  he  held  as  his 
most  precious  utensil,  among  the  very  few  conven- 
iences he  had  granted  himself.  It  had  been  his  com- 
panion for  twelve  years,  always  standing  on  the  same 
spot,  always  lending  its  handle  to  him  in  the  early 
morning,  so  that  its  form  had  an  expression  for  him 
of  willing  helpfulness,  and  the  impress  of  its  handle 
on  his  palm  gave  a  satisfaction  mingled  with  that  of 
having  the  fresh  clear  water.  One  day  as  he  was  re- 
turning from  the  well,  he  stumbled  against  the  step 
of  the  stile,  and  his  brown  pot,  falling  with  force 
against  the  stones  that  overarched  the  ditch  below 
him,  was  broken  in  three  pieces.  Silas  picked  up  the 
pieces  and  carried  them  home  with  grief  in  his  heart. 
The  brown  pot  could  never  be  of  use  to  him  any 
more,  but  he  stuck  the  bits  together  and  propped  the 
ruin  in  its  old  place  for  a  memorial. 

This  is  the  history  of  Silas  Marner  until  the  fif- 
teenth year  after  he  came  to  Eaveloe.  The  livelong 
day  he  sat  in  his  loom,  his  ear  filled  with  its  monoto- 
ny, his  eyes  bent  close  down  on  the  slow  growth  of 
sameness  in  the  brownish  web,  his  muscles  moving 
with  such  even  repetition  that  their  pause  seemed  al- 
most as  much  a  constraint  as  the  holding  of  his  breath. 
But  at  night  came  his  revelry  :  at  night  he  closed  his 
shutters,  and  made  fast  his  doors,  and  drew  out  his 
gold.  Long  ago  the  heap  of  coins  had  become  too 
large  for  the  iron  pot  to  hold  them,  and  he  had  made 
for  them  two  thick  leather  bags,  which  wasted  no 
room  in  their  resting-place,  but  lent  themselves  flexi- 


SILAS  MAEISTEB.  31 

bly  to  every  corner.  How  the  guineas  shone  as  they 
came  pouring  out  of  the  dark  leather  mouths !  The 
silver  bore  no  large  proportion  in  amount  to  the  gold, 
because  the  long  pieces  of  linen  which  formed  his 
chief  work  were  always  partly  paid  for  in  gold,  and 
out  of  the  silver  he  supplied  his  own  bodily  wants, 
choosing  always  the  shillings  and  sixpences  to  spend 
in  this  way.  He  loved  the  guineas  best,  but  he  would 
not  change  the  silver — the  crowns  and  half-crowns 
that  were  his  own  earnings,  begotten  by  his  labour ; 
he  loved  them  all.  He  spread  them  out  in  heaps  and 
bathed  his  hands  in  them ;  then  he  counted  them  and 
set  them  up  in  regular  piles,  and  felt  their  rounded 
outline  between  his  thumb  and  fingers,  and  thought 
fondly  of  the  guineas  that  were  only  half-earned  by 
the  work  in  his  loom,  as  if  they  had  been  unborn 
children — thought  of  the  guineas  that  were  coming 
slowly  through  the  coming  years,  through  all  his  life, 
which  spread  far  away  before  him,  the  end  quite  hid- 
den by  countless  days  of  weaving.  No  wonder  his 
thoughts  were  still  with  his  loom  and  his  money  when 
he  made  his  journeys  through  the  fields  and  the  lanes 
to  fetch  and  carry  home  his  work,  so  that  his  steps 
never  wandered  to  the  hedge-banks  and  the  lane-side 
in  search  of  the  once  familiar  herbs :  these  too  belong- 
ed to  the  past,  from  which  his  life  had  shrunk  away, 
like  a  rivulet  that  has  sunk  far  down  from  the  grassy 
fringe  of  its  old  breadth  into  a  little  shivering  thread, 
that  cuts  a  groove  for  itself  in  the  barren  sand. 

But  about  the  Christmas  of  that  fifteenth  year,  a 
second  great  change  came  over  Marner's  life,  and  his 
history  became  blent  in  a  singular  manner  with  the 
life  of  his  neighbours. 


32  SILAS  MARKER. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  greatest  man  in  Raveloe  was  Squire  Cass,  who 
lived  in  the  large  red  house,  with  the  handsome  flight 
of  stone  steps  in  front  and  the  high  stables  behind  it, 
nearly  opposite  the  church.  He  was  only  one  among 
several  landed  parishioners,  but  he  alone  was  honoured 
with  the  title  of  squire  ;  for  though  Mr.  Osgood's  fam- 
ily was  also  understood  to  be  of  timeless  origin — the 
Eaveloe  imagination  having  never  ventured  back  to 
that  fearful  blank  when  there  were  no  Osgoods — still, 
he  merely  owned  the  farm  he  occupied;  whereas 
Squire  Cass  had  a  tenant  or  two,  who  complained  of 
the  game  to  him  quite  as  if  he  had  been  a  lord. 

It  was  still  that  glorious  war-time  which  was  felt  to 
be  a  peculiar  favour  of  Providence  towards  the  land- 
ed interest,  and  the  fall  of  prices  had  not  yet  come  to 
carry  the  race  of  small  squires  and  yeomen  down  that 
road  to  ruin  for  which  extravagant  habits  and  bad 
husbandry  were  plentifully  anointing  their  wheels.  I 
am  speaking  now  in  relation  to  Eaveloe  and  the  par- 
ishes that  resembled  it ;  for  our  old-fashioned  country 
life  had  many  different  aspects,  as  all  life  must  have 
when  it  is  spread  over  a  various  surface,  and  breath- 
ed on  variously  by  multitudinous  currents,  from  the 
winds  of  heaven  to  the  thoughts  of  men,  which  are  for 
ever  moving  and  crossing  each  other,  with  incalcula- 
ble results.     Raveloe  lay  low  among  the  bushy  trees 


SILAS  MARKER.  33 

and  the  rutted  lanes,  aloof  from  the  currents  of  indus- 
trial energy  and  Puritan  earnestness :  the  rich  ate  and 
drank  freely,  and  accepted  gout  and  apoplexy  as 
things  that  ran  mysteriously  in  respectable  families, 
and  the  poor  thought  that  the  rich  were  entirely  in 
the  right  of  it  to  lead  a  jolly  life;  besides,  their  feast- 
ing caused  a  multiplication  of  orts,  which  were  the 
heir-looms  of  the  poor.  Betty  Jay  scented  the  boil- 
ing of  Squire  Cass's  hams,  but  her  longing  was  arrest- 
ed by  the  unctuous  liquor  in  which  they  were  boiled ; 
and  when  the  seasons  brought  round  the  great  merry- 
makings, they  were  regarded  on  all  hands  as  a  fine 
thing  for  the  poor.  For  the  Baveloe  feasts  were  like 
the  rounds  of  beef  and  the  barrels  of  ale — they  were 
on  a  large  scale,  and  lasted  a  good  while,  especially  in 
the  winter-time.  When  ladies  had  packed  up  their 
best  gowns  and  top-knots  in  bandboxes,  and  had  in- 
curred the  risk  of  fording  streams  on  pillions  with  the 
precious  burden  in  rainy  or  snowy  weather,  when 
there  was  no  knowing  how  high  the  water  would  rise, 
it  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  they  looked  forward  to 
a  brief  pleasure.  On  this  ground  if  was  always  con- 
trived in  the  dark  seasons,  when  there  was  little  work 
to  be  done  and  the  hours  were  long,  that  several  neigh- 
bours should  keep  open  house  in  succession.  "When 
Squire  Cass's  standing  dishes  diminished  in  plenty  and 
freshness,  his  guests  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  a 
little  higher  up  the  village  to  Mr.  Osgood's,  at  the  Or- 
chards, and  they  found  hams  and  chines  uncut,  pork- 
pies  with  the  scent  of  the  fire  in  them,  spun  butter  in 
all  its  freshness — everything,  in  fact,  that  appetites  at 
leisure  could  desire,  in  perhaps  greater  perfection, 
B2 


34  SILAS  MARNEK. 

though  not  in  greater  abundance,  than  at  Squire 
Cass's. 

For  the  Squire's  wife  had  died  long  ago,  and  the 
Ked  House  was  without  that  presence  of  the  wife  and 
mother  which  is  the  fountain  of  wholesome  love  and 
fear  in  parlour  and  kitchen ;  and  this  helped  to  ac- 
count not  only  for  there  being  more  profusion  than 
finished  excellence  in  the  holiday  provisions,  but  also 
for  the  frequency  with  which  the  proud  Squire  conde- 
scended to  preside  in  the  parlour  of  the  Eainbow  rath- 
er than  under  the  shadow  of  his  own  dark  wainscot ; 
perhaps,  also,  for  the  fact  that  his  sons  had  turned  out 
rather  ill.  Eaveloe  was  not  a  place  where  moral  cen- 
sure was  severe,  but  it  was  thought  a  weakness  in  the 
Squire  that  he  had  kept  all  his  sons  at  home  in  idle- 
ness ;  and  though  some  licence  was  to  be  allowed  to 
young  men  whose  fathers  could  afford  it,  people  shook 
their  heads  at  the  courses  of  the  second  son,  Dunstan, 
commonly  called  Dunsey  Cass,  whose  taste  for  swop- 
ping and  betting  might  turn  out  to  be  a  sowing  of 
something  worse  than  wild  oats.  To  be  sure,  the 
neighbours  said,  it  was  no  matter  what  became  of  Dun- 
sey— a  spiteful  jeering  fellow,  who  seemed  to  enjoy 
his  drink  the  more  when  other  people  went  dry — al- 
ways provided  that  his  doings  did  not  bring  trouble 
on  a  family  like  Squire  Cass's,  with  a  monument  in 
the  church,  and  tankards  older  than  King  George. 
But  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  if  Mr.  Godfrey,  the 
eldest,  a  fine,  open-faced,  good-natured  young  man, 
who  was  to  come  into  the  land  some  day,  should  take 
to  going  along  the  same  road  as  his  brother,  as  he  had 
seemed  to  do  of  late.     If  he  went  on  in  that  way,  he 


SILAS  MARNER.  35 

would  lose  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter;  for  it  was  well 
known  that  she  had  looked  very  shyly  on  him  ever 
since  last  Whitsuntide  twelvemonth,  when  there  was 
so  much  talk  about  his  being  away  from  home  days 
and  days  together.  There  was  something  wrong, 
more  than  common — that  was  quite  clear;  for  Mr. 
Godfrey  didn't  look  half  so  fresh-coloured  and  open  as 
he  used  to  do.  At  one  time  everybody  was  saying 
what  a  handsome  couple  he  and  Miss  Nancy  Lamme- 
ter would  make !  and  if  she  could  come  to  be  mistress 
at  the  Eed  House  there  would  be  a  fine  change,  for 
the  Lammeters  had  been  brought  up  in  that  way  that 
they  never  suffered  a  pinch  of  salt  to  be  wasted,  and 
yet  everybody  in  their  household  had  of  the  best,  ac- 
cording to  his  place.  Such  a  daughter-in-law  would 
be  a  saving  to  the  old  Squire,  if  she  never  brought  a 
penny  to  her  fortune,  for  it  was  to  be  feared  that,  not- 
withstanding his  incomings,  there  were  more  holes  in 
his  pocket  than  the  one  where  he  put  his  own  hand 
in.  But  if  Mr.  Godfrey  didn't  turn  over  a  new  leaf, 
he  might  say  "  Good-by"  to  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter. 

It  was  the  once  hopeful  Godfrey  who  was  standing, 
with  his  hands  in  his  side-pockets  and  his  back  to  the 
fire,  in  the  dark  wainscoted  parlour,  one  late  Novem- 
ber afternoon,  in  that  fifteenth  year  of  Silas  Marner's 
life  at  Eaveloe.  The  fading  grey  light  fell  dimly  on 
the  walls  decorated  with  guns,  whips,  and  foxes' 
brushes,  on  coats  and  hats  flung  on  the  chairs,  on 
tankards  sending  forth  a  scent  of  flat  ale,  and  on  a 
half-choked  fire,  with  pipes  propped  up  in  the  chim- 
ney-corners :  signs  of  a  domestic  life  destitute  of  any 
hallowing  charm,  with  which  the  look  of  gloomy  vexa- 


36  SILAS  MARNER. 

tion  on  Godfrey's  blond  face  was  in  sad  accordance. 
He  seemed  to  be  waiting  and  listening  for  some  one's 
approach,  and  presently  the  sound  of  a  heavy  step, 
with  an  accompanying  whistle,  was  heard  across  the 
large  empty  entrance-hall. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  thick-set,  heavy-looking 
young  man  entered,  with  the  flushed  face  and  the 
gratuitously  elated  bearing  which  mark  the  first  stage 
of  intoxication.  It  was  Dunsey,  and  at  the  sight  of 
him  Godfrey's  face  parted  with  some  of  its  gloom  to 
take  on  the  more  active  expression  of  hatred.  The 
handsome  brown  spaniel  that  lay  on  the  hearth  re- 
treated under  the  chair  in  the  chimney-corner. 

"Well,  Master  Godfrey,  what  do  you  want  with 
me?"  said  Dunsey,  in  a  mocking  tone.  "You're  my 
elders  and  betters  you  know ;  I  was  obliged  to  come 
when  you  sent  for  me." 

"Why,  this  is  what  I  want — and  just  shake  your- 
self sober  and  listen,  will  you  ?"  said  Godfrey,  savage- 
ly. He  had  himself  been  drinking  more  than  was 
good  for  him,  trying  to  turn  his  gloom  into  uncalcu- 
lating  anger.  "  I  want  to  tell  you,  I  must  hand  over 
that  rent  of  Fowler's  to  the  Squire,  or  else  tell  him  I 
gave  it  you ;  for  he's  threatening  to  distrain  for  it,  and 
it'll- all  be  out  soon,  whether  I  tell  him  or  not.  He 
said,  just  now,  before  he  went  out,  he  should  send 
word  to  Cox  to  distrain,  if  Fowler  didn't  come  and 
pay  up  his  arrears  this  week.  The  Squire's  short  o' 
cash,  and  in  no  humour  to  stand  any  nonsense ;  and 
you  know  what  he  threatened,  if  ever  he  found  you 
making  away  with  his  money  again.  So,  see  and  get 
the  money,  and  pretty  quickly,  will  you?" 


SILAS  MARNER.  37 

"Oh!"  said  Dunsey,  sneeringly,  coming  nearer  to 
his  brother  and  looking  in  his  face.  "  Suppose,  now, 
you  get  the  money  yourself,  and  save  me  the  trouble, 
eh  ?  Since  you  was  so  kind  as  to  hand  it  over  to  me, 
you'll  not  refuse  me  the  kindness  to  pay  it  back  for 
me :  it  was  your  brotherly  love  made  you  do  it,  you 
know." 

Godfrey  bit  his  lips  and  clenched  his  fist.  "  Don't 
come  near  me  with  that  look,  else  I'll  knock  you 
down." 

"O  no,  you  won't,"  said  Dunsey,  turning  away  on 
his  heel,  however.  "  Because  I'm  such  a  good-natured 
brother,  you  know.  I  might  get  you  turned  out  of 
house  and  home,  and  cut  off  with  a  shilling  any  day. 
I  might  tell  the  Squire  how  his  handsome  son  was 
married  to  that  nice  young  woman,  Molly  Farren,  and 
was  very  unhappy  because  he  couldn't  live  with  his 
drunken  wife,  and  I  should  slip  into  your  place  as 
comfortable  as  could  be.  But,  you  see,  I  don't  do  it  / 
— I'm  so  easy  and  good-natured.  You'll  take  any  ^ 
trouble  for  me.  You'll  get  the  hundred  pounds  for 
me — I  know  you  will." 

"  How  can  I  gefthe  money?"  said  Godfrey,  quiver- 
ing. "  I  haven't  a  shilling  to  bless  myself  with.  And 
it's  a  lie  that  you'd  slip  into  my  place :  you'd  get  your- 
self turned  out  too,  that's  all.  For  if  you  begin  tell- 
ing tales,  I'll  follow.  Bob's  my  father's  favourite — 
you  know  that  very  well.  He'd  only  think  himself 
well  rid  of  you."  v 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Dunsey,  nodding  his  head  side- 
ways as  he  looked  out  of  the  window.  "  It  'ud  be 
very  pleasant  to  me  to  go  in  your  company — you're 


38  SILAS  MARNER. 

such  a  handsome  brother,  and  we've  always  been  so 
fond  of  quarrelling  with  one  another,  I  shouldn't  know 
what  to  do  without  you.  But  you'd  like  better  for 
us  both  to  stay  at  home  together ;  I  know  you  would. 
So  you'll  manage  to  get  that  little  sum  o'  money,  and 
I'll  bid  you  good-by,  though  I'm  sorry  to  part." 

Dunstan  was  moving  off,  but  Godfrey  rushed  after 
him  and  seized  him  by  the  arm,  saying,  with  an  oath, 

"  I  tell  you,  I  have  no  money :  I  can  get  no  money." 

"  Borrow  of  old  Kimble." 

"I  tell  you,  he  won't  lend  me  any  more,  and  I 
shan't  ask  him." 

"Well  then,  sell  Wildfire." 

"  Yes,  that's  easy  talking.  I  must  have  the  money 
directly." 

"Well,  you've  only  got  to  ride  him  to  the  hunt  to- 
morrow. There'll  be  Bryce  and  Keating  there,  for 
sure.     You'll  get  more  bids  than  one." 

"I  daresay,  and  get  back  home  at  eight  o'clock, 
splashed  up  to  the  chin.  I'm  going  to  Mrs.  Osgood's 
birthday  dance." 

11  Oho !"  said  Dunsey,  turning  his  head  on  one  side, 
and  trying  to  speak  in  a  small  mincing  treble.  "  And 
there's  sweet  Miss  Nancy  coming ;  and  we  shall  dance 
with  her,  and  promise  never  to  be  naughty  again,  and 
be  taken  into  favour,  and — " 

"  Hold  your  tongue  about  Miss  Nancy,  you  fool," 
said  Godfrey,  turning  red,  "  else  I'll  throttle  you." 

"  What  for?"  said  Dunsey,  still  in  an  artificial  tone, 
but  taking  a  whip  from  the  table  and  beating  the  butt- 
end  of  it  on  his  palm.  "  You've  a  very  good  chance. 
I'd  advise  you  to  creep  up  her  sleeve  again :  it  'ud  be 


SILAS  MARNER.  39 

saving  time  if  Molly  should  happen  to  take  a  drop  too 
much  laudanum  some  day,  and  make  a  widower  of 
you.  Miss  Nancy  wouldn't  mind  being  a  second,  if 
she  didn't  know  it.  ^And  you've  got  a  good-natured 
brother,  who'll  keep  your  secret  well,  because  you'll 
be  so  very  obliging  to  him." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Godfrey,  quivering, 
and  pale  again.  "  My  patience  is  pretty  near  at  an 
end.  If  you'd  a  little  more  sharpness  in  you,  you 
might  know  that  you  might  urge  a  man  a  bit  too  far, 
and  make  one  leap  as  easy  as  another.  I  don't  know 
but  what  it  is  so  now :  I  may  as  well  tell  the  Squire 
everything  myself — I  should  get  you  off  my  back,  if 
I  got  nothing  else.  And,  after  all,  he'll  know  some 
time.  She's  been  threatening  to  come  herself  and  tell 
him.  So,  don't  natter  yourself  that  your  secrecy's 
worth  any  price  you  choose  to  ask.  You  drain  me 
of  money  till  I've  got  nothing  to  pacify  her  with,  and 
she'll  do  as  she  threatens  some  day.  It's  all  one.  I'll 
tell  my  father  everything  myself,  and  you  may  go  to 
the  devil." 

Dunsey  perceived  that  he  had  overshot  his  mark, 
and  that  there  was  a  point  at  which  even  the  hesitat- 
ing Godfrey  might  be  driven  into  decision.  But  he 
said,  with  an  air  of  unconcern, 

"As  you  please;  but  I'll  have  a  draught  of  ale 
first."  And  ringing  the  bell,  he  threw  himself  across 
two  chairs,  and  began  to  rap  the  window-seat  with  the 
handle  of  his  whip. 

Godfrey  stood,  still  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  uneas- 
ily moving  his  fingers  among  the  contents  of  his  side- 
pockets,  and  looking  at  the  floor.     That  big  muscular 


40  SILAS  MAKNER. 

frame  of  his  held  plenty  of  animal  courage,  but  helped 
him  to  no  decision  when  the  dangers  to  be  braved 
were  such  as  could  neither  be  knocked  down  nor 
throttled.  His  natural  irresolution  and  moral  cow- 
ardice were  exaggerated  by  a  position  in  which 
dreaded  consequences  seemed  to  press  equally  on  all 
sides,  and  his  irritation  had  no  sooner  provoked  him 
to  defy  Dunstan  and  anticipate  all  possible  betrayals, 
than  the  miseries  he  must  bring  on  himself  by  such  a 
step  seemed  more  unendurable  to  him  than  the  pres- 
ent evil.  The  results  of  confession  were  not  contin- 
gent, they  were  certain;  whereas  betrayal  was  not 
certain.  From  the  near  vision  of  that  certainty  he 
fell  back  on  suspense  and  vacillation  with  a  sense  of 
repose.  The  disinherited  son  of  a  small  squire,  equal- 
ly disinclined  to  dig  and  to  beg,  was  almost  as  helpless 
as  an  uprooted  tree,  which,  by  the  favour  of  earth  and 
sky,  has  grown  to  a  handsome  bulk  on  the  spot  where 
it  first  shot  upward.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been 
possible  to  think  of  digging  with  some  cheerfulness  if 
Nancy  Lammeter  were  to  be  won  on  those  terms; 
but,  since  he  must  irrevocably  lose  her  as  well  as  the 
inheritance,  and  must  break  every  tie  but  the  one  that 
degraded  him  and  left  him  without  motive  for  trying 
to  recover  his  better  self,  he  could  imagine  no  future 
for  himself  on  the  other  side  of  confession  but  that 
of  "  'listing  for  a  soldier" — the  most  desperate  step, 
short  of  suicide,  in  the  eyes  of  respectable  families. 
No !  he  would  rather  trust  to  casualties  than  to  his 
own  resolve — rather  go  on  sitting  at  the  feast  and  sip- 
ping the  wine  he  loved,  though  with  the  sword  hang- 
ing over  him  and  terror  in  his  heart,  than  rush  away 


SILAS  MARNER.  41 

into  the  cold  darkness  where  there  was  no  pleasure 
left.  The  utmost  concession  to  Dunstan  about  the 
horse  began  to  seem  easy,  compared  with  the  fulfil- 
ment of  his  own  threat.  But  his  pride  would  not  let 
him  recommence  the  conversation  otherwise  than  by 
continuing  the  quarrel.  Dunstan  was  waiting  for 
this,  and  took  his  ale  in  shorter  draughts  than  usual. 

"  It's  just  like  you,"  Godfrey  burst  out,  in  a  bitter 
tone,  "  to  talk  about  my  selling  Wildfire  in  that  cool 
way — the  last  thing  I've  got  to  call  my  own,  and  the 
best  bit  of  horse-flesh  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  And  if 
you'd  got  a  spark  of  pride  in  you,  you'd  be  ashamed 
to  see  the  stables  emptied,  and  everybody  sneering 
about  it.  But  it's  my  belief  you'd  sell  yourself,  if  it 
was  only  for  the  pleasure  of  making  somebody  feel 
he'd  got  a  bad  bargain." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Dunstan,  very  placably,  "you  do 
me  justice,  I  see.  You  know  I'm  a  jewel  for  'ticing 
people  into  bargains.  For  which  reason  I  advise  you 
to  let  me  sell  Wildfire.  I'd  ride  him  to  the  hunt  to- 
morrow for  you,  with  pleasure.  I  shouldn't  look  so 
handsome  as  you  in  the  saddle,  but  it's  the  horse 
they'll  bid  for,  and  not  the  rider." 

"  Yes,  I  daresay — trust  my  horse  to  you !" 

"As  you  please,"  said  Dunstan,  rapping  the  win- 
dow-seat again  with  an  air  of  great  unconcern.  "  It's 
you  have  got  to  pay  Fowler's  money ;  it's  none  of  my 
business.  You  received  the  money  from  him  when 
you  went  to  Bramcote,  and  you  told  the  Squire  it 
wasn't  paid.  I'd  nothing  to  do  with  that ;  you  chose 
to  be  so  obliging  as  give  it  me,  that  was  all.  If  you 
don't  want  to  pay  the  money,  let  it  alone ;  its  all  one 


42  SILAS  MARNER. 

to  me.  But  I  was  willing  to  accommodate  you  by 
undertaking  to  sell  the  horse,  seeing  it's  not  conven- 
ient to  you  to  go  so  far  to-morrow." 

Godfrey  was  silent  for  some  moments.  He  would 
have  liked  to  spring  on  Dunstan,  wrench  the  whip 
from  his  hand,  and  flog  him  to  within  an  inch  of  his 
life;  and  no  bodily  fear  could  have  deterred  him; 
but  he  was  mastered  by  another  sort  of  fear,  which 
was  fed  by  feelings  stronger  even  than  his  resentment. 
When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  in  a  half-conciliatory 
tone. 

"  "Well,  you  mean  no  nonsense  about  the  horse,  eh? 
You'll  sell  him  all  fair,  and  hand  over  the  money  ? 
If  you  don't,  you  know,  everything  '11  go  to  smash, 
for  I've  got  nothing  else  to  trust  to.  And  you'll  have 
less  pleasure  in  pulling  the  house  over  my  head,  when 
your  own  skull's  to  be  broken  too." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Dunstan,  rising,  "all  right.  I  thought 
you'd  come  round.  I'm  the  fellow  to  bring  old  Bryce 
up  to  the  scratch.  I'll  get  you  a  hundred  and  twenty 
for  him,  if  I  get  you  a  penny." 

u  But  it  '11  perhaps  rain  cats  and  dogs  to-morrow,  as 
it  did  yesterday,  and  then  you  can't  go,"  said  Godfrey, 
hardly  knowing  whether  he  wished  for  that  obstacle 
or  not. 

"  Not  it"  said  Dunstan.  "  I'm  always  lucky  in  my 
weather.  It  might  rain  if  you  wanted  to  go  yourself. 
You  never  hold  trumps,  you  know — I  always  do. 
You've  got  the  beauty,  you  see,  and  I've  got  the  luck, 
so  you  must  keep  me  by  you  for  your  crooked  six- 
pence ;  you'll  ne-vQT  get  along  without  me." 

"  Confound  you,  hold  your  tongue,"  said  Godfrey, 


SILAS  MARNER.  43 

impetuously.  "And  take  care  to  keep  sober  to-mor- 
row, else  you'll  get  pitched  on  your  head  coming 
home,  and  Wildfire  might  be  the  worse  for  it." 

"  Make  your  tender  heart  easy,"  said  Dunstan,  open- 
ing the  door.  "  You  never  knew  me  see  double  when 
I'd  got  a  bargain  to  make ;  it  'ud  spoil  the  fun.  Be- 
sides, whenever  I  fall,  I'm  warranted  to  fall  on  my 
legs." 

With  that,  Dunstan  slammed  the  door  behind  him, 
and  left  Godfrey  to  that  bitter  rumination  on  his  per- 
sonal circumstances  which  was  now  unbroken  from 
day  to  day  save  by  the  excitement  of  sporting,  drink- 
ing, card-playing,  or  the  rarer  and  less  oblivious  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter.  The  subtle  and 
varied  pains  springing  from  the  higher  sensibility  that 
accompanies  higher  culture,  are  perhaps  less  pitiable 
than  that  dreary  absence  of  impersonal  enjoyment  and 
consolation  which  leaves  ruder  minds  to  the  perpetual 
urgent  companionship  of  their  own  griefs  and  discon- 
tents. The  lives  of  those  rural  forefathers,  whom  we 
are  apt  to  think  very  prosaic  figures — men  whose  only 
work  was  to  ride  round  their  land,  getting  heavier  and 
heavier  in  their  saddles,  and  who  passed  the  rest  of 
their  days  in  the  half-listless  gratification  of  senses 
dulled  by  monotony — had  a  certain  pathos  in  them 
nevertheless.  Calamities  came  to  them  too,  and  their 
early  errors  carried  hard  consequences :  perhaps  the 
love  of  some  sweet  maiden,  the  image  of  purity,  or- 
der, and  calm,  had  opened  their  eyes  to  the  vision  of 
a  life  in  which  the  days  would  not  seem  too  long,  even 
without  rioting;  but  the  maiden  was  lost,  and  the 
vision  passed  away,  and  then  what  was  left  to  them, 


44  SILAS  MARNER. 

especially  when  they  had  become  too  heavy  for  the 
hunt,  or  for  carrying  a  gun  over  the  furrows,  but  to 
drink  and  get  merry,  or  to  drink  and  get  angry,  so  that 
they  might  be  independent  of  variety,  and  say  over 
again  with  eager  emphasis  the  things  they  had  said  al- 
ready any  time  that  twelvemonth  ?  Assuredly,  among 
these  flushed  and  dull-eyed  men  there  were  some  whom 
— thanks  to  their  native  human  kindness — even  riot 
could  never  drive  into  brutality ;  men  who,  when  their 
cheeks  were  fresh,  had  felt  the  keen  point  of  sorrow  or 
remorse,  had  been  pierced  by  the  reeds  they  leaned  on, 
or  had  lightly  put  their  limbs  in  fetters  from  which  no 
struggle  could  loose  them ;  and  under  these  sad  circum- 
stances, common  to  us  all,  their  thoughts  could  find  no 
resting-place  outside  the  ever-trodden  round  of  their 
own  petty  history. 

That,  at  least,  was  the  condition  of  Godfrey  Cass  in 
this  six-and-twentieth  year  of  his  life.  A  movement 
of  compunction,  helped  by  those  small  indefinable  in- 
fluences which  every  personal  relation  exerts  on  a  pli- 
ant nature,  had  urged  him  into  a  secret  marriage,  which 
was  a  blight  on  his  life.  It  was  an  ugly  story  of  low 
passion,  delusion,  and  waking  from  delusion,  which 
needs  not  to  be  dragged  from  the  privacy  of  Godfrey's 
bitter  memory.  He  had  long  known  that  the  delusion 
was  partly  due  to  a  trap  laid  for  him  by  Dunstan,  who 
saw  in  his  brother's  degrading  marriage  the  means  of 
gratifying  at  once  his  jealous  hate  and  his  cupidity. 
And  if  Godfrey  could  have  felt  himself  simply  a  vic- 
tim, the  iron  bit  that  destiny  had  put  into  his  mouth 
would  have  chafed  him  less  intolerably.  If  the  curses 
he  muttered  half  aloud  when  he  was  alone  had  had  no 


SILAS    MARNER.  45 

other  object  than  Dunstan's  diabolical  cunning,  he 
might  have  shrunk  less  from  the  consequences  of 
avowal.  But  he  had  something  else  to  curse — his 
own  vicious  folly,  which  now  seemed  as  mad  and  un- 
accountable to  him  as  almost  all  our  follies  and  vices 
do  when  their  promptings  have  long  passed  away. 
For  four  years  he  had  thought  of  Nancy  Lammeter, 
and  wooed  her  with  tacit  patient  worship,  as  the  wom- 
an who  made  him  think  of  the  future  with  joy :  she 
would  be  his  wife,  and  would  make  home  lovely  to 
him,  as  his  father's  home  had  never  been ;  and  it 
would  be  easy,  when  she  was  always  near,  to  shake 
off  those  foolish  habits  that  were  no  pleasures,  but 
only  a  feverish  way  of  annulling  vacancy.  Godfrey's 
was  an  essentially  domestic  nature,  bred  up  in  a  home 
where  the  hearth  had  no  smiles,  and  where  the  daily 
habits  were  not  chastised  by  the  presence  of  household 
order ;  his  easy  disposition  made  him  fall  in  unresist- 
ingly with  the  family  courses,  but  the  need  of  some 
tender  permanent  affection,  the  longing  for  some  in- 
fluence that  would  make  the  good  he  preferred  easy 
to  pursue,  caused  the  neatness,  purity,  and  liberal  or- 
derliness of  the  Lammeter  household,  sunned  by  the 
smile  of  Nancy,  to  seem  like  those  fresh  bright  hours 
of  the  morning,  when  temptations  go  to  sleep,  and 
leave  the  ear  open  to  the  voice  of  the  good  angel,  in- 
viting to  industry,  sobriety,  and  peace.  And  yet  the 
hope  of  this  paradise  had  not  been  enough  to  save  him 
from  a  course  which  shut  him  out  of  it  for  ever.  In- 
stead of  keeping  fast  hold  of  the  strong  silken  rope  by 
which  Nancy  would  have  drawn  him  safe  to  the  green 
banks,  where  it  was  easy  to  step  firmly,  he  had  let 


46  SILAS    MARKER. 

himself  be  dragged  back  into  mud  and  slime,  in  which 
it  was  useless  to  struggle.  He  had  made  ties  for  him- 
self which  robbed  him  of  all  wholesome  motive,  and 
were  a  constant  exasperation. 

Still,  there  was  one  position  worse  than  the  present : 
it  was  the  position  he  would  be  in  when  the  ugly  se- 
cret was  disclosed ;  and  the  desire  that  continually  tri- 
umphed over  every  other  was  that  of  warding  off  the 
evil  day,  when  he  would  have  to  bear  the  consequences 
of  his  father's  violent  resentment  for  the  wound  in- 
flicted on  his  family  pride — would  have,  perhaps,  to 
turn  his  back  on  that  hereditary  ease  and  dignity 
which,  after  all,  was  a  sort  of  reason  for  living,  and 
would  carry  with  him  the  certainty  that  he  was  ban- 
ished for  ever  from  the  sight  and  esteem  of  Nancy 
Lammeter.  The  longer  the  interval,  the  more  chance 
there  was  of  deliverance  from  some,  at  least,  of  the 
hateful  consequences  to  which  he  had  sold  himself — 
the  more  opportunities  remained  for  him  to  snatch  the 
strange  gratification  of  seeing  Nancy,  and  gathering 
some  faint  indications  of  her  lingering  regard.  To- 
wards this  gratification  he  was  impelled,  fitfully,  every 
now  and  then,  after  having  passed  weeks  in  which  he 
had  avoided  her  as  the  far-off,  bright- winged  prize, 
that  only  made  him  spring  forward,  and  find  his  chain 
all  the  more  galling.  One  of  those  fits  of  yearning 
was  on  him  now,  and  it  would  have  been  strong 
enough  to  have  persuaded  him  to  trust  Wildfire  to 
Dunstan  rather  than  disappoint  the  yearning,  even  if 
he  had  not  had  another  reason  for  his  disinclination 
towards  the  morrow's  hunt.  That  other  reason  was 
the  fact  that  the  morning's  meet  was  near  Batherley, 


SILAS  JIAKNER.  47 

the  market-town  where  the  unhappy  woman  lived, 
whose  image  became  more  odious  to  him  every  day ; 
and  to  his  thought  the  whole  vicinage  was  haunted 
by  her.  The  yoke  a  man  creates  for  himself  by 
wrong-doing  will  breed  hate  in  the  kindliest  nature ; 
and  the  good-humoured,  affectionate-hearted  Godfrey 
Cass  was  fast  becoming  a  bitter  man,  visited  by  cruel 
wishes,  that  seemed  to  enter,  and  depart,  and  enter 
again,  like  demons  who  had  found  in  him  a  ready- 
garnished  home. 

What  was  he  to  do  this  evening  to  pass  the  time  ? 
He  might  as  well  go  to  the  Kainbow,  and  hear  the 
talk  about  the  cock-fighting :  everybody  was  there, 
and  what  else  was  there  to  be  done  ?  Though,  for  his 
own  part,  he  did  not  care  a  button  for  cock-fighting. 
Snuff,  the  brown  spaniel,  who  had  placed  herself  in 
front  of  him,  and  had  been  watching  him  for  some 
time,  now  jumped  up  in  impatience  for  the  expected 
caress.  But  Godfrey  thrust  her  away  without  look- 
ing at  her,  and  left  the  room,  followed  humbly  by  the 
unresenting  Snuff— perhaps  because  she  saw  no  other 
career  open  to  her. 


48  SILAS  MARNER. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

Dunstan  Cass,  setting  off  in  the  raw  morning,  at 
the  judiciously  quiet  pace  of  a  man  who  is  obliged  to 
ride  to  cover  on  his  hunter,  had  to  take  his  way  along 
the  lane,  which,  at  its  farther  extremity,  passed  by  the 
piece  of  unenclosed  ground  called  the  Stonepit,  where 
stood  the  cottage,  once  a  stone-cutter's  shed,  now  for 
fifteen  years  inhabited  by  Silas  Marner.  The  spot 
looked  very  dreary  at  this  season,  with  the  moist  trod- 
den clay  about  it,  and  the  red,  muddy  water  high  up 
in  the  deserted  quarry.  That  was  Dunstan's  first 
thought  as  he  approached  it ;  the  second  was,  that  the 
old  fool  of  a  weaver,  whose  loom  he  heard  rattling  al- 
ready, had  a  great  deal  of  money  hidden  somewhere. 
How  was  it  that  he,  Dunstan  Cass,  who  had  often  heard 
talk  of  Marner's  miserliness,  had  never  thought  of 
suggesting  to  Godfrey  that  he  should  frighten  or  per- 
suade the  old  fellow  into  lending  the  money  on  the 
excellent  security  of  the  young  Squire's  prospects  ? 
The  resource  occurred  to  him  now  as  so  easy  and 
agreeable,  especially  as  Marner's  hoard  was  likely  to 
be  large  enough  to  leave  Godfrey  a  handsome  surplus 
beyond  his  immediate  needs,  and  enable  him  to  accom- 
modate his  faithful  brother,  that  he  had  almost  turned 
the  horse's  head  towards  home  again.  Godfrey  would 
be  ready  enough  to  accept  the  suggestion :  he  would 
snatch  eagerly  at  a  plan  that  might  save  him  from 


SILAS  MAKNER.  49 

parting  with  Wildfire.  But  when  Dunstan's  medita- 
tion reached  this  point,  the  inclination  to  go  on  grew 
strong  and  prevailed.  He  didn't  want  to  give  Godfrey 
that  pleasure :  he  preferred  that  Master  Godfrey  should 
be  vexed.  Moreover,  Dunstan  enjoyed  the  self-im- 
portant consciousness  of  having  a  horse  to  sell,  and  the 
opportunity  of  driving  a  bargain,  swaggering,  and,  pos- 
sibly, taking  somebody  in.  He  might  have  all  the 
satisfaction  attendant  on  selling  his  brother's  horse, 
and  not  the  less  have  the  further  satisfaction  of  setting 
Godfrey  to  borrow  Marner's  money.  So  he  rode  on 
to  cover. 

Bryce  and  Keating  were  there,  as  Dunstan  was 
quite  sure  they  would  be — he  was  such  a  lucky  fel- 
low. 

"  Hey-day,"  said  Bryce,  who  had  long  had  his  eye 
on  "Wildfire,  "you're  on  your  brother's  horse  to-day: 
how's  that?" 

"0,  I've  swopped  with  him,"  said  Dunstan,  whose 
delight  in  lying,  grandly  independent  of  utility,  was 
not  to  be  diminished  by  the  likelihood  that  his  hearer 
would  not  believe  him — "Wildfire's  mine  now." 

"What!  has  he  swopped  with  you  for  that  big- 
boned  hack  of  yours?"  said  Bryce,  quite  aware  that 
he  should  get  another  lie  in  answer. 

"  0,  there  was  a  little  account  between  us,"  said 
Dunsey,  carelessly,  "  and  Wildfire  made  it  even.  I 
accommodated  him  by  taking  the  horse,  though  it  was 
against  my  will,  for  I'd  got  an  itch  for  a  mare  o'  Jor- 
tin's — as  rare  a  bit  o'  blood  as  ever  you  threw  your 
leg  across.  But  I  shall  keep  Wildfire,  now  I've  got 
him ;  though  I'd  a  bid  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  for  him 

C 


50  SILAS  MARNER. 

the  other  day,  from  a  man  over  at  Flitton — he's  buy- 
ing for  Lord  Cromleck — a  fellow  with  a  cast  in  his 
eye,  and  a  green  waistcoat.  But  I  mean  to  stick  to 
Wildfire :  I  shan't  get  a  better  at  a  fence  in  a  hurry. 
The  mare's  got  more  blood,  but  she's  a  bit  too  weak 
in  the  hind-quarters." 

Bryce  of  course  divined  that  Dunstan  wanted  to 
sell  the  horse,  and  Dunstan  knew  that  he  divined  it 
(horse-dealing  is  only  one  of  many  human  transac- 
tions carried  on  in  this  ingenious  manner) ;  and  they 
both  considered  that  the  bargain  was  in  its  first  stage, 
when  Bryce  replied  ironically — 

"I  wonder  at  that  now;  I  wonder  you  mean  to 
keep  him;  for  I  never  heard  of  a  man  who  didn't 
want  to  sell  his  horse  getting  a  bid  of  half  as  much 
again  as  the  horse  was  worth.  You'll  be  lucky  if  you 
get  a  hundred." 

Keating  rode  up  now,  and  the  transaction  became 
more  complicated.  It  ended  in  the  purchase  of  the 
horse  by  Bryce  for  a  hundred  and  twenty,  to  be  paid 
on  the  delivery  of  Wildfire,  safe  and  sound,  at  the 
Batherley  stables.  It  did  occur  to  Dunsey  that  it 
might  be  wise  for  him  to  give  up  the  day's  hunting, 
proceed  at  once  to  Batherley,  and,  having  waited  for 
Bryce's  return,  hire  a  horse  to  carry  him  home  with 
the  money  in  his  pocket.  But  the  inclination  for  a 
run,  encouraged  by  confidence  in  his  luck,  and  by  a 
draught  of  brandy  from  his  pocket-pistol  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  bargain,  was  not  easy  to  overcome,  es- 
pecially with  a  horse  under  him  that  would  take  the 
fences  to  the  admiration  of  the  field.  Dunstan,  how- 
ever, took  one  fence  too  many,  and  "  staked"  his 


SILAS   MARNER.  51 

horse.  His  own  ill-favoured  person,  which  was  quite 
unmarketable,  escaped  without  injury,  but  poor  Wild- 
fire, unconscious  of  his  price,  turned  on  his  flank,  and 
painfully  panted  his  last.  It  happened  that  Dunstan, 
a  short  time  before,  having  had  to  get  down  to  arrange 
his  stirrup,  had  muttered  a  good  many  curses  at  this 
interruption,  which  had  thrown  him  in  the  rear  of  the 
hunt  near  the  moment  of  glory,  and  under  this  exas- 
peration had  taken  the  fences  more  blindly.  He 
would  soon  have  been  up  with  the  hounds  again, 
when  the  fatal  accident  happened ;  and  hence  he  was 
between  eager  riders  in  advance,  not  troubling  them- 
selves about  what  happened  behind  them,  and  far-off 
stragglers,  who  were  as  likely  as  not  to  pass  quite 
aloof  from  the  line  of  road  in  which  "Wildfire  had 
fallen.  Dunstan,  whose  nature  it  was  to  care  more 
for  immediate  annoyances  than  for  remote  conse- 
quences, no  sooner  recovered  his  legs,  and  saw  that  it 
was  all  over  with  Wildfire,  than  he  felt  a  satisfaction 
at  the  absence  of  witnesses  to  a  position  which  no 
swaggering  could  make  enviable.  Reinforcing  him- 
self, after  his  shake,  with  a  little  brandy  and  much 
swearing,  he  walked  as  fast  as  he  could  to  a  coppice 
on  his  right  hand,  through  which  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  could  make  his  way  to  Batherley  without  dan- 
ger of  encountering  any  member  of  the  hunt.  His 
first  intention  was  to  hire  a  horse  there  and  ride  home 
forthwith,  for  to  walk  many  miles  without  a  gun  in 
his  hand,  and  along  an  ordinary  road,  was  as  much 
out  of  the  question  to  him  as  to  other  spirited  young 
men  of  his  kind.  He  did  not  much  mind  about  tak- 
ing the  bad  news  to  Godfrey,  for  he  had  to  offer  him 


52  SILAS  MARNER. 

at  the  same  time  the  resource  of  Marner's  money ;  and 
if  Godfrey  kicked,  as  he  always  did,  at  the  notion  of 
making  a  fresh  debt,  from  which  he  himself  got  the 
smallest  share  of  advantage,  why,  he  wouldn't  kick 
long :  Dunstan  felt  sure  he  could  worry  Godfrey  into 
anything.  The  idea  of  Marner's  money  kept  growing 
in  vividness,  now  the  want  of  it  had  become  imme- 
diate ;  the  prospect  of  having  to  make  his  appearance 
with  the  muddy  boots  of  a  pedestrian  at  Batherley, 
and  encounter  the  grinning  queries  of  stablemen,  stood 
unpleasantly  in  the  way  of  his  impatience  to  be  back 
at  Eaveloe  and  carry  out  his  felicitous  plan ;  and  a 
casual  visitation  of  his  waistcoat-pocket,  as  he  was  ru- 
minating, awakened  his  memory  to  the  fact  the  two 
or  three  small  coins  his  fore-finger  encountered  there 
were  of  too  pale  a  colour  to  cover  that  small  debt, 
without  payment  of  which  Jennings  had  declared  he 
would  never  do  any  more  business  with  Dunsey  Cass. 
After  all,  according  to  the  direction  in  which  the  run 
had  brought  him,  he  was  not  so  very  much  farther 
from  home  than  he  was  from  Batherley ;  but  Dunsey, 
not  being  remarkable  for  clearness  of  head,  was  only 
led  to  this  conclusion  by  the  gradual  perception  that 
there  were  other  reasons  for  choosing  the  unprece- 
dented course  of  walking  home.  It  was  now  nearly 
four  o'clock,  and  a  mist  was  gathering :  the  sooner  he 
got  into  the  road  the  better.  He  remembered  having 
crossed  the  road  and  seen  the  finger-post  only  a  little 
while  before  Wildfire  broke  down ;  so,  buttoning  his 
coat,  twisting  the  lash  of  his  hunting-whip  compactly 
round  the  handle,  and  rapping  the  tops  of  his  boots 
with  a  self-possessed  air,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  he 


SILAS  MARNER.  53 

was  not  at  all  taken  by  surprise,  he  set  off  with  the 
sense  that  he  was  undertaking  a  remarkable  feat  of 
bodily  exertion,  which  somehow,  and  at  some  time,  he 
should  be  able  to  dress  up  and  magnify  to  the  ad- 
miration of  a  select  circle  at  the  Eainbow.  When  a 
young  gentleman  like  Dunsey  is  reduced  to  so  excep- 
tional a  mode  of  locomotion  as  walking,  a  whip  in  his 
hand  is  a  desirable  corrective  to  a  too  bewildering 
dreamy  sense  of  unwontedness  in  his  position  -  and 
Dunstan,  as  he  went  along  through  the  gathering 
mist,  was  always  rapping  his  whip  somewhere.  It 
was  Godfrey's  whip,  which  he  had  chosen  to  take 
without  leave  because  it  had  a  gold  handle ;  of  course 
no  one  could  see,  when  Dunstan  held  it,  that  the  name 
Godfrey  Cass  was  cut  in  deep  letters  on  that  gold  han- 
dle— they  could  only  see  that  it  was  a  very  handsome 
whip.  Dunsey  was  not  without  fear  that  he  might 
meet  some  acquaintance  in  whose  eyes  he  would  cut 
a  pitiable  figure,  for  mist  is  no  screen  when  people  get 
close  to  each  other ;  but  when  he  at  last  found  him- 
self in  the  well-known  Eaveloe  lanes  without  having 
met  a  soul,  he  silently  remarked  that  that  was  part  of 
his  usual  good-luck.  But  now  the  mist,  helped  by  the 
evening  darkness,  was  more  of  a  screen  than  he  de- 
sired, for  it  hid  the  ruts  into  which  his  feet  were  liable 
to  slip — hid  everything,  so  that  he  had  to  guide  his 
steps  by  dragging  his  whip  along  the  low  bushes  in 
advance  of  the  hedgerow.  He  must  soon,  he  thought, 
be  getting  near  the  opening  at  the  Stone-pits:  he 
should  find  it  out  by  the  break  in  the  hedgerow.  He 
found  it  out,  however,  by  another  circumstance  which 
he  had  not  expected — namely,  by  certain  gleams  of 


54  SILAS  MARNER. 

light,  which  he  presently  guessed  to  proceed  from  Si- 
las Marner's  cottage.  That  cottage  and  the  money 
hidden  within  it  had  been  in  his  mind  continually, 
during  his  walk,  and  he  had  been  imagining  ways  of 
cajoling  and  tempting  the  weaver  to  part  with  the  im- 
mediate possession  of  his  money  for  the  sake  of  re- 
ceiving interest.  Dunstan  felt  as  if  there  must  be  a 
little  frightening  added  to  the  cajolery,  for  his  own 
arithmetical  convictions  were  not  clear  enough  to  af- 
ford him  any  forcible  demonstration  as  to  the  advant- 
ages of  interest ;  and  as  for  security,  he  regarded  it 
vaguely  as  a  means  of  cheating  a  man,  by  making  him 
believe  that  he  would  be  paid.  Altogether,  the  opera- 
tion on  the  miser's  mind  was  a  task  that  Godfrey  would 
be  sure  to  hand  over  to  his  more  daring  and  cunning 
brother :  Dunstan  had  made  up  his  mind  to  that;  and 
by  the  time  he  saw  the  light  gleaming  through  the 
chinks  of  Marner's  shutters,  the  idea  of  a  dialogue  with 
the  weaver  had  become  so  familiar  to  him,  that  it  oc- 
curred to  him  as  quite  a  natural  thing  to  make  the  ac- 
quaintance forthwith.  There  might  be  several  con- 
veniences attending  this  course :  the  weaver  had  pos- 
sibly got  a  lantern,  and  Dunstan  was  tired  of  feeling 
his  way.  He  was  still  nearly  three-quarters  of  a  mile 
from  home,  and  the  lane  was  becoming  unpleasantly 
slippery,  for  the  mist  was  passing  into  rain.  lie  turn- 
ed up  the  bank,  not  without  some  fear  lest  he  should 
miss  the  right  way,  since  he  was  not  certain  whether 
the  light  were  in  front  or  on  the  side  of  the  cottage. 
But  he  felt  the  ground  before  him  cautiously  with  his 
whip-handle,  and  at  last  arrived  safely  at  the  door. 
He  knocked  loudly,  rather  enjoying  the  idea  that  the 


SILAS   MARKER.  55 

old  fellow  would  be  frightened  at  the  sudden  noise. 
He  heard  no  movement  in  reply :  all  was  silence  in 
the  cottage.  Was  the  weaver  gone  to  bed,  then  ?  If 
so,  why  had  he  left  a  light  ?  That  was  a  strange  for- 
getfulness  in  a  miser.  Dunstan  knocked  still  more 
loudly,  and,  without  pausing  for  a  reply,  pushed  his 
fingers  through  the  latch-hole,  intending  to  shake  the 
door  and  pull  the  latch-string  up  and  down,  not  doubt- 
ing that  the  door  was  fastened.  But,  to  his  surprise, 
at  this  double  motion  the  door  opened,  and  he  found 
himself  in  front  of  a  bright  fire,  which  lit  up  every 
corner  of  the  cottage — the  bed,  the  loom,  the  three 
chairs,  and  the  table — and  showed  him  that  Marner 
was  not  there. 

Nothing  at  that  moment  could  be  much  more  invit- 
ing to  Dunsey  than  the  bright  fire  on  the  brick  hearth : 
he  walked  in  and  seated  himself  by  it  at  once.  There 
was  something  in  front  of  the  fire,  too,  that  would  have 
been  inviting  to  a  hungry  man,  if  it  had  been  in  a  dif- 
ferent stage  of  cooking.  It  was  a  small  bit  of  pork 
suspended  from  the  kettle-hanger  by  a  string  passed 
through  a  large  door-key,  in  a  way  known  to  primi- 
tive housekeepers  unpossessed  of  jacks.  But  the  pork 
had  been  hung  at  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  hanger, 
apparently  to  prevent  the  roasting  from  proceeding 
too  rapidly  during  the  owner's  absence.  The  old  star- 
ing simpleton  had  hot  meat  for  his  supper,  then? 
thought  Dunstan.  People  had  always  said  he  lived 
on  mouldy  bread,  on  purpose  to  check  his  appetite. 
But  where  could  he  be  at  this  time,  and  on  such  an 
evening,  leaving  his  supper  in  this  stage  of  prepara- 
tion, and  his  door  unfastened  ?     Dunstan's  own  recent 


56  SILAS  MARNEK. 

difficulty  in  making  his  way  suggested  to  him  that 
the  weaver  had  perhaps  gone  outside  his  cottage  to 
fetch  in  fuel,  or  for  some  such  brief  purpose,  and  had 
slipped  into  the  Stone-pit.  That  was  an  interesting 
idea  to  Dunstan,  carrying  consequences  of  entire  nov- 
elty. If  the  weaver  was  dead,  who  had  a  right  to  his 
money?  Who  would  know  where  his  money  was 
hidden  ?  Who  would  know  that  anybody  had  come  to 
take  it  away  ?  He  went  no  farther  into  the  subtleties 
of  evidence:  the  pressing  question,  "Where  is  the 
money  ?"  now  took  such  entire  possession  of  him  as 
to  make  him  quite  forget  that  the  weaver's  death  was 
not  a  certainty.  A  dull  mind,  once  arriving  at  an  in- 
ference that  flatters  a  desire,  is  rarely  able  to  retain 
the  impression  that  the  notion  from  which  the  infer- 
ence started  was  purely  problematic.  And  Dunstan's 
mind  was  as  dull  as  the  mind  of  a  possible  felon  usu- 
ally is.  There  were  only  three  hiding-places  where 
he  had  ever  heard  of  cottagers'  hoards  being  found : 
the  thatch,  the  bed,  and  a  hole  in  the  floor.  Marner's 
cottage  had  no  thatch ;  and  Dunstan's  first  act,  after 
a  train  of  thought  made  rapid  by  the  stimulus  of  cu- 
pidity, was  to  go  up  to  the  bed ;  but  while  he  did  so, 
his  eyes  travelled  eagerly  over  the  floor,  where  the 
bricks,  distinct  in  the  fire-light,  were  discernible  under 
the  sprinkling  of  sand.  But  not  everywhere;  for 
there  was  one  spot,  and  one  only,  which  was  quite 
covered  with  sand,  and  sand  showing  the  marks  of 
fingers  which  had  apparently  been  careful  to  spread  it 
over  a  given  space.  It  was  near  the  treddles  of  the 
loom.  In  an  instant  Dunstan  darted  to  that  spot, 
swept  away  the  sand  with  his  whip,  and,  inserting  the 


SILAS   MARNER.  57 

thin  end  of  the  hook  between  the  bricks,  found  that 
they  were  loose.  In  haste  he  lifted  up  two  bricks, 
and  saw  what  he  had  no  doubt  was  the  object  of  his 
search ;  for  what  could  there  be  but  money  in  those 
two  leathern  bags?  And,  from  their  weight,  they 
must  be  filled  with  guineas.  Dunstan  felt  round  the 
hole,  to  be  certain  that  it  held  no  more ;  then  hastily 
replaced  the  bricks,  and  spread  the  sand  over  them. 
Hardly  more  than  five  minutes  had  passed  since  he 
entered  the  cottage,  but  it  seemed  to  Dunstan  like  a 
long  while ;  and  though  he  was  without  any  distinct 
recognition  of  the  possibility  that  Marner  might  be 
alive,  and  might  re-enter  the  cottage  at  any  moment, 
he  felt  an  undefinable  dread  laying  hold  on  him,  as 
he  rose  to  his  feet  with  the  bags  in  his  hand.  He 
would  hasten  out  into  the  darkness,  and  then  consider 
what  he  should  do  with  the  bags.  He  closed  the  door 
behind  him  immediately,  that  he  might  shut  in  the 
stream  of  light :  a  few  steps  would  be  enough  to  carry 
him  beyond  betrayal  by  the  gleams  from  the  shutter- 
chinks  and  the  latch-hole.  The  rain  and  darkness 
had  got  thicker,  and  he  was  glad  of  it ;  though  it  was 
awkward  walking  with  both  hands  filled,  so  that  it 
was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  grasp  his  whip  along 
with  one  of  the  bags.  But  when  he  had  gone  a  yard 
or  two,  he  might  take  his  time.  So  he  stepped  for- 
ward into  the  darkness. 

C2 


58  SILAS   MAENEE. 


CHAPTEK  V. 

When  Dunstan  Cass  turned  his  back  on  the  cot- 
tage, Silas  Marner  was  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards 
away  from  it,  plodding  along  from  the  village  with  a 
sack  thrown  round  his  shoulders  as  an  over-coat,  and 
with  a  horn  lantern  in  his  hand.  His  legs  were  wea- 
ry, but  his  mind  was  at  ease,  free  from  the  presenti- 
ment of  change.  The  sense  of  security  more  frequent- 
ly springs  from  habit  than  from  conviction,  and  for 
this  reason  it  often  subsists  after  such  a  change  in  the 
conditions  as  might  have  been  expected  to  suggest 
alarm.  The  lapse  of  time  during  which  a  given  event 
has  not  happened,  is,  in  this  logic  of  habit,  constantly 
alleged  as  a  reason  why  the  event  should  never  hap- 
pen, even  when  the  lapse  of  time  is  precisely  the  add- 
ed condition  which  makes  the  event  imminent.  A 
man  will  tell  you  that  he  has  worked  in  a  mine  for 
forty  years  unhurt  by  an  accident,  as  a  reason  why 
he  should  apprehend  no  danger,  though  the  roof  is 
beginning  to  sink ;  and  it  is  often  observable,  that  the 
older  a  man  gets,  the  more  difficult  it  is  to  him  to  re- 
tain a  believing  conception  of  his  own  death.  This 
influence  of  habit  was  necessarily  strong  in  a  man 
whose  life  was  so  monotonous  as  Marner's — who  saw 
no  new  people  and  heard  of  no  new  events  to  keep 
alive  in  him  the  idea  of  the  unexpected  and  the  change- 
ful;   and  it  explains,  simply  enough,  why  his  mind 


SILAS   MARNER.  59 

could  be  at  ease,  though  he  had  left  his  house  and  his 
treasure  more  defenceless  than  usual.  Silas  was  think- 
ing with  double  complacency  of  his  supper :  first,  be- 
cause it  would  be  hot  and  savoury;  and,  secondly, 
because  it  would  cost  him  nothing.  For  the  little  bit 
of  pork  was  a  present  from  that  excellent  housewife, 
Miss  Priscilla  Lammeter,  to  whom  he  had  this  day 
carried  home  a  handsome  piece  of  linen ;  and  it  was 
only  on  occasion  of  a  present  like  this,  that  Silas  in- 
dulged himself  with  roast-meat.  Supper  was  his  fa- 
vourite meal,  because  it  came  at  his  time  of  revelry, 
when  his  heart  warmed  over  his  gold ;  whenever  he 
had  roast-meat,  he  always  chose  to  have  it  for  supper. 
But  this  evening,  he  had  no  sooner  ingeniously  knot- 
ted his  string  fast  round  his  bit  of  pork,  twisted  the 
string  according  to  rule  over  his  door-key,  passed  it 
through  the  handle,  and  made  it  fast  on  the  hanger, 
than  he  remembered  that  a  piece  of  very  fine  twine 
was  indispensable  to  his  "setting  up"  a  new  piece  of 
work  in  his  loom  early  in  the  morning.  It  had  slip- 
ped his  memory,  because,  in  coming  from  Mr.  Lam- 
meter's,  he  had  not  had  to  pass  through  the  village ; 
but  to  lose  time  by  going  on  errands  in  the  morning 
was  out  of  the  question.  It  was  a  nasty  fog  to  turn 
out  into,  but  there  were  things  Silas  loved  better  than 
his  own  comfort ;  so,  drawing  his  pork  to  the  extremity 
of  the  hanger,  and  arming  himself  with  his  lantern  and 
his  old  sack,  he  set  out  on  what,  in  ordinary  weather, 
would  have  been  a  twenty  minutes'  errand.  He  could 
not  have  locked  his  door  without  undoing  his  well- 
knotted  string  and  retarding  his  supper ;  it  was  not 
worth  his  while  to  make  that  sacrifice.     What  thief 


60  SILAS  MARKER. 

would  find  his  way  to  the  Stone-pits  on  such  a  night 
as  this?  and  why  should  he  come  on  this  particular 
night,  when  he  had  never  come  through  all  the  twelve 
years  before?  These  questions  were  not  distinctly 
present  in  Silas's  mind;  they  merely  serve  to  repre- 
sent the  vaguely -felt  foundation  of  his  freedom  from 
anxiety. 

He  reached  his  door  in  much  satisfaction  that  his 
errand  was  done :  he  opened  it,  and  to  his  short-sight- 
ed eyes  everything  remained  as  he  had  left  it,  except 
that  the  fire  sent  out  a  welcome  increase  of  heat.  He 
trod  about  the  floor  while  putting  by  his  lantern  and 
throwing  aside  his  hat  and  sack,  so  as  to  merge  the 
marks  of  Dunstan's  feet  on  the  sand  in  the  marks  of 
his  own  nailed  boots.  Then  he  moved  his  pork  near- 
er to  the  fire,  and  sat  down  to  the  agreeable  business 
of  tending  the  meat  and  warming  himself  at  the  same 
time. 

Any  one  who  had  looked  at  him  as  the  red  light 
shone  upon  his  pale  face,  strange  straining  eyes,  and 
meagre  form,  would  perhaps  have  understood  the 
mixture  of  contemptuous  pity,  dread,  and  suspicion 
with  which  he  was  regarded  by  his  neighbours  in 
Eaveloe.  Yet  few  men  could  be  more  harmless  than 
poor  Marner.  In  his  truthful  simple  soul,  not  even 
the  growing  greed  and  worship  of  gold  could  beget 
any  vice  directly  injurious  to  others.  The  light  of 
his  faith  quite  put  out,  and  his  affections  made  deso- 
late, he  had  clung  with  all  the  force  of  his  nature  to 
his  work  and  his  money ;  and  like  all  objects  to  which 
a  man  devotes  himself,  they  had  fashioned  him  into 
correspondence  with  themselves.     His  loom,  as   lie 


SILAS  MARNER.  61 

wrought  in  it  without  ceasing,  had  in  its  turn  wrought 
on  him,  and  confirmed  more  and  more  the  monotonous 
craving  for  its  monotonous  response.  His  gold,  as  he 
hung  over  it  and  saw  it  grow,  gathered  his  power  of 
loving  together  into  a  hard  isolation  like  its  own. 

As  soon  as  he  was  warm  he  began  to  think  it  would 
be  a  long  while  to  wait  till  after  supper  before  he  drew 
out  his  guineas,  and  it  would  be  pleasant  to  see  them 
on  the  table  before  him  as  he  ate  his  unwonted  feast. 
For  joy  is  the  best  of  wine,  and  Silas's  guineas  were  a 
golden  wine  of  that  sort. 

He  rose  and  placed  his  candle  unsuspectingly  on 
the  floor  near  his  loom,  swept  away  the  sand  without 
noticing  any  change,  and  removed  the  bricks.  The 
sight  of  the  empty  hole  made  his  heart  leap  violently, 
but  the  belief  that  his  gold  was  gone  could  not  come 
at  once — only  terror,  and  the  eager  effort  to  put  an 
end  to  the  terror.  He  passed  his  trembling  hand  all 
about  the  hole,  trying  to  think  it  possible  that  his 
eyes  had  deceived  him ;  then  he  held  the  candle  in 
the  hole  and  examined  it  curiously,  trembling  more 
and  more.  At  last  he  shook  so  violently  that  he  let 
fall  the  candle,  and  lifted  his  hands  to  his  head,  try- 
ing to  steady  himself,  that  he  might  think.  Had  he 
put  his  gold  somewhere  else,  by  a  sudden  resolution 
last  night,  and  then  forgotten  it  ?  A  man  falling  into 
dark  water  seeks  a  momentary  footing  even  on  sliding 
stones ;  and  Silas,  by  acting  as  if  he  believed  in  false 
hopes,  warded  off  the  moment  of  despair.  He  search- 
ed in  every  corner,  he  turned  his  bed  over,  and  shook 
it,  and  kneaded  it ;  he  looked  in  his  brick  oven  where 
he  laid  his  sticks.    When  there  was  no  other  place  to 


02  SILAS   MARNEB. 

be  searched,  lie  kneeled  down  again  and  felt  once  more 
all  round  the  hole.  There  was  no  untried  refuge  left 
for  a  moment's  shelter  from  the  terrible  truth. 

Yes,  there  was  a  sort  of  refuge  which  always  comes 
with  the  prostration  of  thought  under  an  overpower- 
ing passion :  it  was  that  expectation  of  impossibilities, 
that  belief  in  contradictory  images,  which  is  still  dis- 
tinct from  madness,  because  it  is  capable  of  being  dis- 
sipated by  the  external  fact.  Silas  got  up  from  his 
knees  trembling,  and  looked  round  at  the  table :  didn't 
the  gold  lie  there  after  all?  The  table  was  bare. 
Then  he  turned  and  looked  behind  him — looked  all 
round  his  dwelling,  seeming  to  strain  his  brown  eyes 
after  some  possible  appearance  of  the  bags,  where  he 
had  already  sought  them  in  vain.  He  could  see  every 
object  in  his  cottage — and  his  gold  was  not  there. 

Again  he  put  his  trembling  hands  to  his  head,  and 
gave  a  wild  ringing  scream,  the  cry  of  desolation. 
For  a  few  moments  after,  he  stood  motionless;  but 
the  cry  had  relieved  him  from  the  first  maddening 
pressure  of  the  truth.  He  turned,  and  tottered  to- 
wards his  loom,  and  got  into  the  seat  where  he  work- 
ed, instinctively  seeking  this  as  the  strongest  assur- 
ance of  reality. 

And  now  that  all  the  false  hopes  had  vanished,  and 
the  first  shock  of  certainty  was  past,  the  idea  of  a  thief 
began  to  present  itself,  and  he  entertained  it  eagerly, 
because  a  thief  might  be  caught  and  made  to  restore 
the  gold.  The  thought  brought  some  new  strength 
with  it,  and  he  started  from  his  loom  to  the  door.  As 
he  opened  it  the  rain  beat  in  upon  him,  for  it  was  fall- 
ing more  and  more  heavily.     There  were  no  footsteps 


SILAS   MARXER.  63 

to  be  tracked  on  such  a  night — footsteps?  When 
had  the  thief  come?  During  Silas's  absence  in  the 
daytime  the  door  had  been  locked,  and  there  had  been 
no  marks  of  any  inroad  on  his  return  by  daylight. 
And  in  the  evening,  too,  he  said  to  himself,  every- 
thing was  the  same  as  when  he  had  left  it.  The  sand 
and  bricks  looked  as  if  they  had  not  been  moved. 
Was  it  a  thief  who  had  taken  the  bags  ?  or  was  it  a 
cruel  power  that  no  hands  could  reach,  which  had  de- 
lighted in  making  him  a  second  time  desolate?  He 
shrank  from  this  vaguer  dread,  and  fixed  his  mind  with 
struggling  effort  on  the  robber  with  hands,  who  could 
be  reached  by  hands.  His  thoughts  glanced  at  all  the 
neighbours  who  had  made  any  remarks,  or  asked  any 
questions  which  he  might  now  regard  as  a  ground  of 
suspicion.  There  was  Jem  Eodney,  a  known  poach- 
er, and  otherwise  disreputable :  he  had  often  met  Mar- 
ner  in  his  journeys  across  the  fields,  and  had  said 
something  jestingly  about  the  weaver's  money;  nay, 
he  had  once  irritated  Marney,  by  lingering  at  the  fire 
when  he  called  to  light  his  pipe,  instead  of  going 
about  his  business.  Jem  Eodney  was  the  man — there 
was  ease  in  the  thought.  Jem  could  be  found  and 
made  to  restore  the  money :  Marner  did  not  want  to 
punish  him,  but  only  to  get  back  his  gold  which  had 
gone  from  him,  and  left  his  soul  like  a  forlorn  travel- 
ler on  an  unknown  desert.  The  robber  must  be  laid 
hold  of.  Marner's  ideas  of  legal  authority  were  con- 
fused, but  he  felt  that  he  must  go  and  proclaim  his 
loss ;  and  the  great  people  in  the  village — the  clergy- 
man, the  constable,  and  Squire  Cass — would  make 
Jem  Eodney,  or  somebody  else,  deliver  up  the  stolen 


64  SILAS  MARNEK. 

money.  He  rushed  out  in  the  rain  under  the  stimu- 
lus of  this  hope,  forgetting  to  cover  his  head,  not 
caring  to  fasten  his  door ;  for  he  felt  as  if  he  had  noth- 
ing left  to  lose.  He  ran  swiftly  till  want  of  breath 
compelled  him  to  slacken  his  pace  as  he  was  entering 
the  village  at  the  turning  close  to  the  Eainbow. 

The  Eainbow,  in  Marner's  view,  was  a  place  of  lux- 
urious resort  for  rich  and  stout  husbands,  whose  wives 
had  superfluous  stores  of  linen ;  it  was  the  place  where 
he  was  likely  to  find  the  powers  and  dignities  of  Eav- 
eloe,  and  where  he  could  most  speedily  make  his  loss 
public.  He  lifted  the  latch,  and  turned  into  the  bright 
bar  or  kitchen  on  the  right  hand,  where  the  less  lofty 
customers  of  the  house  were  in  the  habit  of  assem- 
bling, the  parlour  on  the  left  being  reserved  for  the 
more  select  society  in  which  Squire  Cass  frequently 
enjoyed  the  double  pleasure  of  conviviality  and  con- 
descension. But  the  parlour  was  dark  to-night,  the 
chief  personages  who  ornamented  its  circle  being  all 
at  Mrs.  Osgood's  birthday  dance,  as  Godfrey  Cass  was. 
And  in  consequence  of  this,  the  party  on  the  high- 
screened  seats  in  the  kitchen  was  more  numerous  than 
usual ;  several  personages,  who  would  otherwise  have 
been  admitted  into  the  parlour  and  enlarged  the  oppor- 
tunity of  hectoring  and  condescension  for  their  bet- 
ters, being  content  this  evening  to  vary  their  enjoy- 
ment by  taking  their  spirits-and-water  where  they 
could  themselves  hector  and  condescend  in  company 
that  called  for  beer. 


SILAS  3IARXER.  65 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  conversation,  which  was  at  a  high  pitch  of  ani- 
mation when  Silas  approached  the  door  of  the  Rain- 
bow, had,  as  usual,  been  slow  and  intermittent  when 
the  company  first  assembled.  The  pipes  began  to  be 
puffed  in  a  silence  which  had  an  air  of  severity ;  the 
more  important  customers,  who  drank  spirits  and  sat 
nearest  the  fire,  staring  at  each  other  as  if  a  bet  were 
depending  on  the  first  man  who  winked ;  while  the 
beer-drinkers,  chiefly  men  in  fustian  jackets  and  smock- 
frocks,  kept  their  eyelids  down  and  rubbed  their  hands 
across  their  mouths,  as  if  their  draughts  of  beer  were 
a  funereal  duty  attended  with  embarrassing  sadness. 
At  last,  Mr.  Snell,  the  landlord,  a  man  of  a  neutral  dis- 
position, accustomed  to  stand  aloof  from  human  dif- 
ferences as  those  of  beings  who  were  all  alike  in  need 
of  liquor,  broke  silence,  by  saying  in  a  doubtful  tone 
to  his  cousin  the  butcher — 

"  Some  folks  'ud  say  that  was  a  fine  beast  you  druv 
in  yesterday,  Bob  ?" 

The  butcher,  a  jolly,  smiling,  red-haired  man,  was 
not  disposed  to  answer  rashly.  He  gave  a  few  puffs 
before  he  spat  and  replied,  "And  they  wouldn't  be 
fur  wrong,  John." 

After  this  feeble  delusive  thaw,  the  silence  set  in  as 
severely  as  before. 

11  Was  it  a  red  Durham  ?"  said  the  farrier,  taking  up 


66  SILAS  MAKNEK. 

the  thread  of  discourse  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  min- 
utes. 

The  farrier  looked  at  the  landlord,  and  the  landlord 
looked  at  the  butcher,  as  the  person  who  must  take 
the  responsibility  of  answering. 

"  Eed  it  was,"  said  the  butcher,  in  his  good-humour- 
ed husky  treble — "  and  a  Durham  it  was." 

"  Then  you  needn't  tell  me  who  you  bought  it  of," 
said  the  farrier,  looking  round  with  some  triumph ;  "I 
know  who  it  is  has  got  the  red  Durhams  o'  this  coun- 
try-side. And  she'd  a  white  star  on  her  brow,  I'll  bet 
a  penny  ?"  The  farrier  leaned  forward  with  his  hands 
on  his  knees  as  he  put  this  question,  and  his  eyes 
twinkled  knowingly. 

"  Well ;  yes — she  might,"  said  the  butcher,  slowly, 
considering  that  he  was  giving  a  decided  affirmative. 
"I  don't  say  contrairy." 

"  I  knew  that  very  well,"  said  the  farrier,  throwing 
himself  backward  again,  and  speaking  defiantly ;  "  if 
/  don't  know  Mr.  Lammeter's  cows,  I  should  like  to 
know  who  does — that's  all.  And  as  for  the  cow  youVe 
bought,  bargain  or  no  bargain,  I've  been  at  the  drench- 
ing of  her — contradick  me  who  will." 

The  farrier  looked  fierce,  and  the  mild  butcher's 
conversational  spirit  was  roused  a  little. 

11  I'm  not  for  contradicking  no  man,"  he  said  ;  "  I'm 
for  peace  and  quietness.  Some  are  for  cutting  long 
ribs — I'm  for  cutting  'em  short,  myself;  but  /  don't 
quarrel  with  'em.  All  I  say  is,  it's  a  lovely  carkiss — 
and  anybody  as  was  reasonable,  it  'ud  bring  tears  into 
their  eyes  to  look  at  it." 

"  Well,  it's  the  cow  as  I  drenched,  whatever  it  is," 


SILAS   MARNEK.  67 

pursued  the  farrier,  angrily ;  M  and  it  was  Mr.  Lam- 
meter's  cow,  else  you  told  a  lie  when  you  said  it  was 
a  red  Durham." 

"  I  tell  no  lies,"  said  the  butcher,  with  the  same  mild 
huskiness  as  before ;  "  and  I  contradick  none — not  if 
a  man  was  to  swear  himself  black :  he's  no  meat  o' 
mine,  nor  none  o'  my  bargains.  All  I  say  is,  it's  a 
lovely  carkiss.  And  what  I  say,  I'll  stick  to ;  but  I'll 
quarrel  wi'  no  man." 

"No,"  said  the  farrier,  with  bitter  sarcasm,  looking 
at  the  company  generally ;  "  and  p'rhaps  you  aren't 
pig-headed ;  and  p'rhaps  you  didn't  say  the  cow  was 
a  red  Durham ;  and  p'rhaps  you  didn't  say  she'd  got 
a  star  on  her  brow — stick  to  that,  now  you're  at  it." 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  landlord,  "let  the  cow  alone. 
The  truth  lies  atween  you :  you're  both  right  and  both 
wrong,  as  I  allays  say.  And  as  for  the  cow's  being 
Mr.  Lammeter's,  I  say  nothing  to  that ;  but  this  I  say, 
as  the  Eainbow's  the  Eainbow.  And  for  the  matter 
o'  that,  if  the  talk  is  to  be  o'  the  Lammeters,  you  know 
the  most  upo'  that  head,  eh,  Mr.  Macey?  You  re- 
member when  first  Mr.  Lammeter's  father  come  into 
these  parts,  and  took  the  Warrens  ?" 

Mr.  Macey,  tailor  and  parish-clerk,  the  latter  of 
which  functions  rheumatism  had  of  late  obliged  him 
to  share  with  a  small-featured  young  man  who  sat 
opposite  him,  held  his  white  head  on  one  side,  and 
twirled  his  thumbs  with  an  air  of  complacency,  slight- 
ly seasoned  with  criticism.  He  smiled  pityingly,  in 
answer  to  the  landlord's  appeal,  and  said — 

"  Ay,  ay ;  I  know,  I  know ;  but  I  let  other  folks 
talk.     I've  laid  by  now,  and  gev  up  to  the  young  uns. 


68  SILAS  MARNER. 

Ask  them  as  have  been  to  school  at  Tarley :  they've 
learnt  pernouncing ;  that's  come  up  since  my  day." 

"If  you're  pointing  at  me,  Mr.  Macey,"  said  the 
deputy-clerk,  with  an  air  of  anxious  propriety,  "  I'm 
nowise  a  man  to  speak  out  of  my  place.  As  the 
psalm  says — 

*  I  know  what's  right,  nor  only  so, 
But  also  practise  what  I  know.'  " 

"  Well,  then,  I  wish  you'd  keep  hold  o'  the  tune 
when  it's  set  for  you ;  if  you're  for  pracftsing,  I  wish 
you'd  prac&se  that,"  said  a  large  jocose-looking  man, 
an  excellent  wheelwright  in  his  week-day  capacity, 
but  on  Sundays  leader  of  the  choir.  He  winked,  as 
he  spoke,  at  two  of  the  company,  who  were  known 
officially  as  "the  bassoon"  and  "the  key-bugle,"  in 
the  confidence  that  he  was  expressing  the  sense  of  the 
musical  profession  in  Eaveloe. 

Mr.  Tookey,  the  deputy-clerk,  who  shared  the  un- 
popularity common  to  deputies,  turned  very  red,  but 
replied,  with  careful  moderation — "  Mr.  Winthrop,  if 
you'll  bring  me  any  proof  as  I'm  in  the  wrong,  I'm 
not  the  man  to  say  I  won't  alter.  But  there's  people 
set  up  their  own  ears  for  a  standard,  and  expect  the 
whole  choir  to  follow  'em.  There  may  be  two  opin- 
ions, I  hope." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  who  felt  very  well  satis- 
fied with  this  attack  on  youthful  presumption:  "you're 
right  there,  Tookey ;  there's  allays  two  'pinions ;  there's 
the  'pinion  a  man  has  of  himsen,  and  there's  the  'pin- 
ion other  folks  have  on  him.  There'd  be  two  'pinions 
about  a  cracked  bell,  if  the  bell  could  hear  itself." 

"Well,  Mr.  Macey,"  said  poor  Tookey,  serious  amidst 


SILAS  MARNER.  69 

the  general  laughter,  "  I  undertook  to  partially  fill  up 
the  office  of  parish-clerk  by  Mr.  Cracken thorp's  desire, 
whenever  your  infirmities  should  make  you  unfitting; 
and  it's  one  of  the  rights  thereof  to  sing  in  the  choir — 
else  why  have  you  done  the  same  yourself?" 

"  Ah !  but  the  old  gentleman  and  you  are  two 
folks,"  said  Ben  Winthrop.  "The  old  gentleman's 
got  a  gift.  Why,  the  Squire  used  to  invite  him  to 
take  a  glass,  only  to  hear  him  sing  the  '  Eed  Eovier ;' 
didn't  he,  Mr.  Macey  ?  It's  a  nat'ral  gift.  There's  my 
little  lad  Aaron,  he's  got  a  gift — he  can  sing  a  tune  off 
straight,  like  a  throstle.  But  as  for  you,  Master  Took- 
ey,  you'd  better  stick  to  your  'Amens:'  your  voice  is 
well  enough  when  you  keep  it  up  in  your  nose.  It's 
your  inside  as  isn't  right  made  for  music :  it's  no  bet- 
ter nor  a  hollow  stalk." 

This  kind  of  unflinching  frankness  was  the  most 
piquant  form  of  joke  to  the  company  at  the  Eainbow, 
and  Ben  Winthrop's  insult  was  felt  by  everybody  to 
have  capped  Mr.  Macey's  epigram. 

"  I  see  what  it  is  plain  enough,"  said  Mr.  Tookey, 
unable  to  keep  cool  any  longer.  "  There's  a  consper- 
acy  to  turn  me  out  o'  the  choir,  as  I  shouldn't  share 
the  Christmas  money — that's  where  it  is.  But  I  shall 
speak  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp ;  I'll  not  be  put  upon  by 
no  man." 

"  Nay,  nay,  Tookey,"  said  Ben  Winthrop.  "We'll 
pay  you  your  share  to  keep  out  of  it — that's  what 
we'll  do.  There's  things  folks  'ud  pay  to  be  rid  on, 
besides  varmin." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  landlord,  who  felt  that  pay- 
ing people  for  their  absence  was  a  principle  dangerous 


70  SILAS  HARNER. 

to  society ;  "a  joke's  a  joke.  "We're  all  good  friends 
here,  I  hope.  We  must  give  and  take.  You're  both 
right  and  you're  both  wrong,  as  I  say.  I  agree  wi' 
Mr.  Macey  here,  as  there's  two  opinions ;  and  if  mine 
was  asked,  I  should  say  they're  both  right.  Tookey's 
right  and  Winthrop's  right,  and  they've  only  got  to 
split  the  difference  and  make  themselves  even." 

The  farrier  was  puffing  his  pipe  rather  fiercely,  in 
some  contempt  at  this  trivial  discussion.  He  had  no 
ear  for  music  himself,  and  never  went  to  church,  as 
being  of  the  medical  profession,  and  likely  to  be  in  req- 
uisition for  delicate  cows.  But  the  butcher,  having 
music  in  his  soul,  had  listened  with  a  divided  desire  for 
Tookey's  defeat,  and  for  the  preservation  of  the  peace. 

"To  be  sure,"  he  said,  following  up  the  landlord's 
conciliatory  view,  "we're  fond  of  our  old  clerk;  it's 
nat'ral,  and  him  used  to  be  such  a  singer,  and  got  a 
brother  as  is  known  for  the  first  fiddler  in  this  coun- 
try-side. Eh,  it's  a  pity  but  what  Solomon  lived  in 
our  village,  and  could  give  us  a  tune  when  he  liked , 
eh,  Mr.  Macey  ?  I'd  keep  him  in  liver  and  lights  for 
nothing — that  I  would." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  the  height  of  compla- 
cency ;  "  our  family's  been  known  for  musicianers  as 
far  back  as  anybody  can  tell.  But  them  things  are 
dying  out,  as  I  tell  Solomon  every  time  he  comes 
round ;  there's  no  voices  like  what  there  used  to  be, 
and  there's  nobody  remembers  what  we  remember,  if 
it  isn't  the  old  crows." 

"Ay,  you  remember  when  first  Mr.  Lammeter's  fa- 
ther came  into  these  parts,  don't  you,  Mr.  Macey?"  said 
the  landlord. 


SILAS   MARNER.  71 

"  I  should  think  I  did,"  said  the  old  man,  who  had 
now  gone  through  that  complimentary  process  neces- 
sary to  bring  him  up  to  the  point  of  narration,  "  and 
a  fine  old  gentleman  he  was — as  fine,  and  finer  nor 
the  Mr.  Lammeter  as  now  is.  He  came  from  a  bit 
north'ard,  so  far  as  I  could  ever  make  out.  But 
there's  nobody  rightly  knows  about  those  parts :  only 
it  couldn't  be  far  north'ard,  nor  much  different  from 
this  country,  for  he  brought  a  fine  breed  o'  sheep  with 
him,  so  there  must  be  pastures  there,  and  everything 
reasonable.  We  beared  tell  as  he'd  sold  his  own  land 
to  come  and  take  the  Warrens,  and  that  seemed  odd 
for  a  man  as  had  land  of  his  own,  to  come  and  rent  a 
farm  in  a  strange  place.  But  they  said  it  was  along 
of  his  wife's  dying ;  though  there's  reasons  in  things 
as  nobody  knows  on — that's  pretty  much  what  I've 
made  out ;  though  some  folks  are  so  wise,  they'll  find 
you  fifty  reasons  straight  off,  and  all  the  while  the  real 
reason's  winking  at  'em  in  the  corner,  and  they  niver 
see't.  Howsomever,  it  was  soon  seen  as  we'd  got  a 
new  parish'ner  as  know'd  the  rights  and  customs  o' 
things,  and  kep  a  good  house,  and  was  well  looked  on 
by  everybody.  And  the  young  man — that's  the  Mr. 
Lammeter  as  now  is,  for  he'd  niver  a  sister — soon  be- 
gun to  court  Miss  Osgood,  that's  the  sister  o'  the  Mr. 
Osgood  as  now  is,  and  a  fine  handsome  lass  she  was — 
eh,  you  can't  think — they  pretend  this  young  lass  is 
like  her,  but  that's  the  way  wi'  people  as  don't  know 
what  come  before  'em.  /  should  know,  for  I  helped 
the  old  rector,  Mr.  Drumlow  as  was,  I  helped  him  mar- 
ry 'em." 

Here  Mr.  Macey  paused ;  he  always  gave  his  nar- 


72  SILAS  MARKER. 

rative  in  instalments,  expecting  to  be  questioned  ac- 
cording to  precedent. 

"  Ay,  and  a  partic'lar  thing  happened,  didn't  it,  Mr. 
Macey,  so  as  you  were  likely  to  remember  that  mar- 
riage ?"  said  the  landlord,  in  a  congratulatory  tone. 

"I  should  think  there  did — a  very  partic'lar  thing," 
said  Mr.  Macey,  nodding  sideways.  "  For  Mr.  Drum- 
low — poor  old  gentleman,  I  was  fond  on  him,  though 
he'd  got  a  bit  confused  in  his  head,  what  wi'  age  and 
wi'  taking  a  drop  o'  summat  warm  when  the  service 
come  of  a  cold  morning.  And  young  Mr.  Lammeter, 
he'd  have  no  way  but  he  must  be  married  in  Janiwary, 
which,  to  be  sure,  's  a  unreasonable  time  to  be  married 
in,  for  it  isn't  like  a  christening  or  a  burying,  as  you 
can't  help ;  and  so  Mr.  Drumlow — poor  old  *gentle- 
man,  I  was  fond  on  him — but  when  he  come  to  put 
the  questions,  he  put  'em  by  the  rule  o'  contrairy,  like, 
and  he  says,  '  Wilt  thou  have  this  man  to  thy  wedded 
wife?'  says  he,  and  then  he  says,  'Wilt  thou  have  this 
woman  to  thy  wedded  husband?'  says  he.  But  the 
partic'larest  thing  of  all  is,  as  nobody  took  any  notice 
on  it  but  me,  and  they  answered  straight  off  'yes,'  like 
as  if  it  had  been  me  saying  'Amen'  i'  the  right  place, 
without  listening  to  what  went  before." 

"But  you  knew  what  was  going  on  well  enough, 
didn't  you,  Mr.  Macey  ?  You  were  live  enough,  eh  ?" 
said  the  butcher. 

"Lor  bless  you!"  said  Mr.  Macey,  pausing,  and 
smiling  in  pity  at  the  impotence  of  his  hearers'  imag- 
ination— "why,  I  was  all  of  a  tremble:  it  was  as  if 
I'd  been  a  coat  pulled  by  the  two  tails,  like;  for  I 
couldn't  stop  the  parson,  I  couldn't  take  upon  me  to 


SILAS  MARNER.  73 

do  that ;  and  yet  I  said  to  myself,  I  says,  '  Suppose 
they  shouldn't  be  fast  married,  'cause  the  words  are 
contrairy?'  and  my  head  went  working  like  a  mill, 
for  I  was  allays  uncommon  for  turning  things  over 
and  seeing  all  round  'em ;  and  I  says  to  myself,  '  Is't 
the  meanin'  or  the  words  as  makes  folks  fast  i'  wed- 
lock.?' For  the  parson  meant  right,  and  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  meant  right.  But  then,  when  I  come  to 
think  on  it,  meanin'  goes  but  a  little  way  i'  most  things, 
for  you  may  mean  to  stick  things  together  and  your 
glue  may  be  bad,  and  then  where  are  you  ?  And  so 
I  says  to  mysen,  \  It  isn't  the  meanin',  it's  the  glue.' 
And  I  was  worreted  as  if  I'd  got  three  bells  to  pull  at 
once,  when  we  got  into  the  vestry,  and  they  begun  to 
sign  their  names.  But  where's  the  use  o'  talking  ? — 
you  can't  think  what  goes  on  in  a  'cute  man's  inside." 

11  But  you  held  in  for  all  that,  didn't  you,  Mr.  Ma- 
cey  ?"  said  the  landlord. 

"Ay,  I  held  in  tight  till  I  was  by  mysen  wi'  Mr. 
Drumlow,  and  then  I  out  wi'  everything,  but  respect- 
ful, as  I  allays  did.  And  he  made  light  on  it,  and  he 
says,  'Pooh,  pooh,  Macey,  make  yourself  easy,'  he 
says,  '  it's  neither  the  meaning  nor  the  words — it's  the 
renter  does  it — that's  the  glue.'  So  you  see  he  set- 
tled it  easy  ;  for  parsons  and  doctors  know  everything 
by  heart,  like,  so  as  they  aren't  worreted  wi'  thinking 
what's  the  rights  and  wrongs  o'  things,  as  I'n  been 
many  and  many's  the  time.  And  sure  enough  the 
wedding  turned  out  all  right,  on'y  poor  Mrs.  Lam- 
meter — that's  Miss  Osgood  as  was — died  afore  the 
lasses  were  growed  up ;  but  for  prosperity  and  every- 
thing respectable,  there's  no  family  more  looked  on." 

D 


74  SILAS   MABNEE. 

Every  one  of  Mr.  Macey's  audience  had  heard  this 
story  many  times,  but  it  was  listened  to  as  if  it  had 
been  a  favourite  tune,  and  at  certain  points  the  puff- 
ing of  the  pipes  was  momentarily  suspended,  that  the 
listeners  might  give  their  whole  minds  to  the  expected 
words.  But  there  was  more  to  come ;  and  Mr.  Snell. 
the  landlord,  duly  put  the  leading  question. 

"  Wfe^j  old  Mr.  Lammeter  had  a  pretty  fortin,  didn't 
they  say,  when  he  come  into  these  parts?'} 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Macey;  "but  I  daresay  it's 
as  much  as  this  Mr.  Lammeter's  done  to  keep  it  whole. 
For  there  was  allays  a  talk  as  nobody  could  get  rich 
on  the  Warrens:  though  he  holds  it  cheap,  for  it's 
what  they  call  Charity  Land." 

"Ayj  and  there's  few  folks  know  so  well  as  you 
how  it  came  to  be  Charity  Land,  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ?"  said 
the  butcher. 

"  How  should  they?"  said  the  old  clerk,  with  some 
contempt.  "  Why,  my  grandfather  made  the  grooms' 
livery  for  that  Mr.  Cliff  as  came  and  built  the  big  sta- 
bles at  the  Warrens.  Why,  they're  stables  four  times 
as  big  as  Squire  Cass's,  for  he  thought  o'  nothing  but 
bosses  and  hunting,  Cliff  didn't — a  Lunnon  tailor, 
some  folks  said,  as  had  gone  mad  wi'  cheating.  For 
he  couldn't  ride  ;  lor  bless  you !  they  said  he'd  got  no 
more  grip  o'  the  hoss  than  if  his  legs  had  been  cross 
sticks :  my  grandfather  heared  old  Squire  Cass  say  so 
many  and  many  a  time.  But  ride  he  would,  as  if  old 
Harry  had  been  a-driving  him ;  and  he'd  a  son,  a  lad 
o'  sixteen ;  and  nothing  would  his  father  have  him  do, 
but  he  must  ride  and  ride — though  the  lad  was  fright- 
ed, they  said.    And  it  was  a  common  saying  as  tike  lit- 


SILAS  MARNEK.  75 

ther  "wanted  to  ride  the  tailor  out  o'  the  lad,  and  make 
a  gentleman  on  him — not  but  what  I'm  a  tailor  my- 
self, but  in  respect  as  God  made  me  such,  I'm  proud 
on  it,  for  'Macey,  tailor,'  's  been  wrote  up  over  our 
door  since  afore  the  Queen's  heads  went  out  on  the 
shillings.  But  Cliff,  he  was  ashamed  o'  being  called  a 
tailor,  and  he  was  sore  vexed  as  his  riding  was  laugh- 
ed at,  and  nobody  o'  the  gentlefolks  hereabout  could 
abide  him.  Howsomever,  the  poor  lad  got  sickly  and 
died,  and  the  father  didn't  live  long  after  him,  for  he 
got  queerer  nor  ever,  and  they  said  he  used  to  go  out 
i'  the  dead  o'  the  night,  wi'  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  to 
the  stables,  and  set  a  lot  o'  lights  burning,  for  he  got 
as  he  couldn't  sleep ;  and  there  he'd  stand,  cracking 
his  whip  and  looking  at  his  hosses ;  and  they  said  it 
was  a  mercy  as  the  stables  didn't  get  burnt  down  wi' 
the  poor  dumb  creaturs  in  'em.  But  at  last  he  died 
raving,  and  they  found  as  he'd  left  all  his  property, 
Warrens  and  all,  to  a  Lunnon  Charity,  and  that's  how 
the  Warrens  come  to  be  Charity  land;  though,  as  for 
the  stables,  Mr.  Lammeter  never  uses  'em — they're  out 
o'  all  charicter — lor  bless  you !  if  you  was  to  set  the 
doors  a-banging  in  'em,  it  'ud  sound  like  thunder  half 
o'erjjie  parish." 

*sAy,  but  there's  more  going  on  in  the  stables  than 
what  folks  see  by  daylight,  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ?']  said  the 
landlord.  / 

"Ay,  ay;  go  that  way  of  a  dark  night,  that's  all," 
said  Mr.  Macey,  winking  mysteriously,  "and  then 
make  believe,  if  you  like,  as  you  didn't  see  light's  i' 
the  stables,  nor  hear  the  stamping  o'  the  hosses,  nor 
the  cracking  o'  the  whips,  and  howling,  too,  if  it's 


76  SILAS   MABNER, 

tow'rt  daybreak.  '  Cliff's  Holiday'  has  been  the  name 
of  it  ever  sin'  I  were  a  boy ;  that's  to  say,  some  said 
as  it  was  the  holiday  Old  Harry  gev  him  from  roast- 
ing, like.  That's  what  my  father  told  me,  and  he  was 
a  reasonable  man,  though  there's  folks  nowadays  know 
what  happened  afore  they  were  born  better  nor  they 
know  their  own  business." 

"What  do  you  say  to  that,  eh,  Dowlas?"  said  the 
landlord,  turning  to  the  farrier,  who  was  swelling  with 
impatience  for  his  cue.  "There's  a  nut  for  you  to 
crack." 

Mr.  Dowlas  was  the  negative  spirit  in  the  company, 
and  was  proud  of  his  position. 

"  Say  ?  I  say  what  a  man  should  say  as  doesn't  shut 
his  eyes  to  look  at  a  finger-post.  I  say,  as  I'm  ready 
to  wager  any  man  ten  pound,  if  he'll  stand  out  wi'  me 
any  dry  night  in  the  pasture  before  the  Warren  sta- 
bles, as  we  shall  neither  see  lights  nor  hear  noises,  if 
it  isn't  the  blowing  of  our  own  noses.  That's  what  I 
say,  and  I've  said  it  many  a  time ;  but  there's  nobody 
'ull  ventur  a  ten-pun'  note  on  their  ghos'es  as  they 
make  so  sure  of." 

"Why,  Dowlas,  that's  easy  betting,  that  is,"  said 
Ben  Winthrop.  "You  might  as  well  bet  a  man  as 
he  wouldn't  catch  the  rheumatise  if  he  stood  up  to  's 
neck  in  the  pool  of  a  frosty  night.  It  'ud  be  fine  fun 
for  a  man  to  win  his  bet  as  he'd  catch  the  rheumatise. 
Folks  as  believe  in  Cliff's  Holiday  aren't  agoing  to 
ventur  near  it  for  a  matter  o'  ten  pound." 

"  If  Master  Dowlas  wants  to  know  the  truth  on  it," 
said  Mr.  Macey,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  tapping  his 
thumbs  together,  "  he's  no  call  to  lay  any  bet — let  him 


SILAS  MARNER.  77 

go  and  Stan'  by  himself — there's  nobody  'ull  hinder 
him;  and  then  he  can  let  the  parish'ners  know  if 
they're  wrong." 

"  Thank  you !  I'm  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  farrier, 
with  a  snort  of  scorn.  "  If  folks  are  fools,  its  no  bus- 
iness o'  mine.  /  don't  want  to  make  out  the  truth 
about  ghos'es :  I  know  it  a'ready.  But  I'm  not  against 
a  bet — everything  fair  and  open.  £et  any  man  bet 
me  ten  pound  as  I  shall  see  Cliff's  Holiday,  and  I'll 
go  and  stand  by  myself.  I  want  no  company.  I'd  as 
lief  do  it  as  I'd  fill  this  pipe." 

M  Ah,  but  who's  to  watch  you,  Dowlas,  and  see  you 
do  it?     That's  no  fair  bet,"  said  the  butcher. 

"No  fair  bet?"  replied  Mr.  Dowlas,  angrily.  "I 
should  like  to  hear  any  man  stand  up  and  say  I  want 
to  bet  unfair.  Come  now,  Master  Lundy,  I  should 
like  to  hear  you  say  it." 

"  Yery  like  you  would,"  said  the  butcher.  "  But 
it's  no  business  o'  mine.  You're  none  o'  my  bargains, 
and  I  aren't  a-going  to  try  and  'bate  your  price.  If 
anybody  '11  bid  for  you  at  your  own  vallying,  let  him. 
I'm  for  peace  and  quietness,  I  am." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  every  yapping  cur  is,  when  you 
hold  a  stick  up  at  him,"  said  the  farrier.  "  But  I'm 
afraid  o'  neither  man  nor  ghost,  and  I'm  ready  to  lay 
a  fair  bet — /aren't  a  turn-tail  cur." 

y"  .Ay,  but  there's  this  in  it,  Dowlas,"  said  the  land- 
lora7~speaking  in  a  tone  of  much  candour  and  tol- 
erance.    "  There's  folks,  i'  my  opinion,  they  can't  see 

not 
fore  'em.  1  And  there's  reason  i'  that.     For  there's  my 


ghos'es,  not  if  they  stood  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff  be- 
fore 'em.  1  And  there's  reason  i'  that.  For  there's  my 
wife,  nowican't  smell,  not  if  she'd  the  strongest  o' 


7^y  M^Jt  f^^^y^Jlf^k 


78  SILAS  MAKNER. 

cheese  under  her  nose.  I  never  see'd  a  ghost  myself, 
but  then  I  says  to  myself,  'Very  like  I  haven't  got 
the  smell  for  'em.'  I  mean,  putting  a  ghost  for  a 
smell,  or  else  contrairiways.  And  so,  I'm  for  holding 
with  both  sides ;  for,  as  I  say,  the  truth  lies  between 
'em.  ^.nd  if  Dowlas  was  to  go  and  stand,  and  say 
he'd  never  seen  a  wink  o'  Cliff's  Holiday  all  the  night 
through,  I'd  back  him ;  and  if  anybody  said  as  Cliff's 
Holiday  was  certain  sure,  for  all  th|t,  I'd  back  him 
too.     For  the  smell's  what  I  go  hjyr 

The  landlords  analogical  argument  was  not  well 
received  by  the  farrier — a  man  intensely  opposed  to 
compromise. 

"  Tut,  tut,"  he  said,  setting  down  his  glass  with  re- 
freshed irritation;  "what's  the  smell  got  to  do  with 
it  ?  Did  ever  a  ghost  give  a  man  a  black  eye?  That's 
what  I  should  like  to  know.  If  ghos'es  want  me  to 
believe  in  'em,  let  'em  leave  off  skulking  i'  the  dark 
and  i'  lone  places — let  'em  come  where  there's  compa- 
ny and  candles." 

"  As  if  ghos'es  'ud  want  to  be  believed  in  by  any- 
body so  ignirant !"  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  deep  disgust  at 
the  farrier's  crass  incompetence  to  apprehend  the  con- 
ditions of  ghostly  phenomena. 


SILAS   MARNER.  79 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Yet  the  next  moment  there  seemed  to  be  some  evi- 
dence that  ghosts  had  a  more  condescending  disposi- 
tion than  Mr.  Macey  attributed  to  them ;  for  the  pale 
thin  figure  of  Silas  Marner  was  suddenly  seen  stand- 
ing in  the  warm  light,  uttering  no  word,  but  looking 
round  at  the  company  with  his  strange  unearthly  eyes. 
The  long  pipes  gave  a  simultaneous  movement,  like 
the  antennas  of  startled  insects,  and  every  man  pres- 
ent, not  excepting  even  the  sceptical  farrier,  had  an 
impression  that  he  saw,  not  Silas  Marner  in  the  flesh, 
but  an  apparition ;  for  the  door  by  which  Silas  had 
entered  was  hidden  by  the  high-screened  seats,  and  no 
one  had  noticed  his  approach.  Mr.  Macey,  sitting  a 
long  way  off  the  ghost,  might  be  supposed  to  have 
felt  an  argumentative  triumph,  which  would  tend  to 
neutralise  his  share  of  the  general  alarm.  Had  he 
not  always  said  that  when  Silas  Marner  was  in  that 
strange  trance  of  his,  his  soul  went  loose  from  his 
body  ?  Here  was  the  demonstration :  nevertheless,  on 
the  whole,  he  would  have  been  as  well  contented  with- 
out it.  For  a  few  moments  there  was  a  dead  silence, 
Marner's  want  of  breath  and  agitation  not  allowing 
him  to  speak.  The  landlord,  under  the  habitual  sense 
that  he  was  bound  to  keep  his  house  open  to  all  com- 
pany, and  confident  in  the  protection  of  his  unbroken 
neutrality,  at  last  took  on  himself  the  task  of  adjuring 
the  ghost. 


80  SILAS  MAKNEK. 

C'  Master  Marner,"  he  said,  in  a  conciliatory  tone, 
"what's  lacking  to  you?    What's  your  business  here?'! 

"Bobbed!"  said  Silas,  gaspingly.  "I've  been  rob- 
bed! I  want  the  constable — and  the  Justice — and 
Squire  Cass — and  Mr.  Crackenthorp." 
|"  Lay  hold  on  him,  Jem  Rodney,"  said  the  landlord, 
the  idea  of  a  ghost  subsiding ;  "  he's  off  his  head,  I 
doubt.     He's  wet  through."  1 

Jem  Rodney  was  the  outermost  man,  and  sat  con- 
veniently near  Marner's  standing-place;  but  he  de- 
clined to  give  his  services. 

"  Come  and  lay  hold  on  him  yourself,  Mr.  Snell,  if 
you've  a  mind,"  said  Jem,  rather  sullenly.  "He's 
been  robbed,  and  murdered  too,  for  what  I  know,"  he 
added,  in  a  muttering  tone. 

"  Jem  Rodney !"  said  Silas,  turning  and  fixing  his 
strange  eyes  on  the  suspected  man. 

"Ay,  Master  Marner,  what  do  you  want  wi'  me?" 
said  Jem,  trembling  a  little,  and  seizing  his  drinking- 
can  as  a  defensive  weapon. 

"  If  it  was  you  stole  my  money,"  said  Silas,  clasp- 
ing his  hands  entreatingly,  and  raising  his  voice  to  a 
cry,  "  give  it  me  back, — and  I  won't  meddle  with  you. 
I  won't  set  the  constable  on  you.  Give  it  me  back, 
and  I'll  let  you — I'll  let  you  have  a  guinea." 

"Me  stole  your  money!"  said  Jem,  angrily.  "  I'll 
pitch  this  can  at  your  eye  if  you  talk  o'  my  stealing 
your  money." 

"  Come,  come,  Master  Marner,"  said  the  landlord, 
now  rising  resolutely,  and  seizing  Marner  by  the  shoul- 
der, "  if  you've  got  any  information  to  lay,  speak  it 
out  sensible,  and  show  as  you're  in  your  right  mind, 


SILAS  MARKER.  81 

s 

if  you  expect  anybody  to  listen  to  you.  You're  as  wet 
fas  a  drowned  rat.  Sit  down  and  dry  yourself,  and 
speak  straight  forrard." 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure,  man,"  said  the  farrier,  who  began 
to  feel  that  he  had  not  been  quite  on  a  par  with  him- 
self and  the  occasion.  "  Let's  have  no  more  stariifg 
and  screaming,  else  we'll  have  you  strapped  for  a 
madman.  That  was  wl%"  I  didn't  speak  at  the  first — 
thinks  I,  the  man's  run  mad." 

"  Ay,  ay,  make  him  sit  down,"  said  several  voices 
at  once,  well  pleased  that  the  reality  of  ghosts  remain- 
ed still  an  open  question. 

The  landlord  forced  Marner  to  take  off  his  coat, 
and  then  to  sit  down  on  a  chair  aloof  from  every  one 
else,  in  the  centre  of  the  circle,  and  in  the  direct  rays 
of  the  fire.  The  weaver,  too  feeble  to  have  any  dis- 
tinct purpose  beyond  that  of  getting  help  to  recover 
his  money,  submitted  unresistingly.  The  transient 
fears  of  the  company  were  now  forgotten  in  their 
strong  curiosity,  and  all  faces  were  turned  towards 
Silas,  when  the  landlord,  having  seated  himself  again, 
said — 

"  Now  then,  Master  Marner,  what's  this  you've  got 
to  say,  as  you've  been  robbed  ?  speak  out." 

"  He'd  better  not  say  again  as  it  was  me  robbed 
him,"  cried  Jem  Eodney,  hastily.  "What  could  I 
ha'  done  with  his  money  ?  I  could  as  easy  steal  the 
parson's  surplice,  and  wear  it." 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Jem,  and  let's  hear  what  he's 
got  to  say,"  said  the  landlord.  "Now  then,  Master 
Marner." 

Silas  now  told  his  story  under  frequent  question- 
D2 


82  SILAS  MAENER. 

ing,  as  the  mysterious  character  of  the  robbery  be- 
came evident. 

This  strangely  novel  situation  of  opening  his  trou- 
ble to  his  Kaveloe  neighbours,  of  sitting  in  the  warmth 
of  a  hearth  not  his  own,  and  feeling  the  presence  of 
faces  and  voices  which  were  his  nearest  promise  of 
help,  had  doubtless  its  influence  on  Marner,  in  spite 
of  his  passionate  preoccupation  with  his  loss.  Our 
consciousness  rarely  registers  the  beginning  of  a 
growth  within  us  any  more  than  without  us :  there 
have  been  many  circulations  of  the  sap  before  we  de- 
tect the  smallest  sign  of  the  bud. 

The  slight  suspicion  with  which  his  hearers  at  first 
listened  to  him,  gradually  melted  away  before  the 
convincing  simplicity  of  his  distress ;  it  was  impossi- 
ble for  the  neighbours  to  doubt  that  Marner  was  tell- 
ing the  truth,  not  because  they  were  capable  of  argu- 
ing at  once  from  the  nature  of  his  statements  to  the 
absence  of  any  motive  for  making  them  falsely,  but 
because,  as  Mr.  Macey  observed,  "  Folks  as  had  the 
devil  to  back  'em  were  not  likely  to  be  so  mushed" 
as  poor  Silas  was.  Eather,  from  the  strange  fact  that 
the  robber  had  left  no  traces,  and  had  happened  to 
know  the  knick  of  time,  utterly  incalculable  by  mor- 
tal agents,  when  Silas  would  go  away  from  home  with- 
out locking  his  door,  the  more  probable  conclusion 
seemed  to  be,  that  his  disreputable  intimacy  in  that 
quarter,  if  it  ever  existed,  had  been  broken  up,  and 
that,  in  consequence,  this  ill  turn  had  been  done  to 
Marner  by  somebody  it  was  quite  in  vain  to  set  the 
constable  after.  "Why  this  preternatural  felon  should 
be  obliged  to  wait  till  the  door  was  left  unlocked, 
was  a  question  which  did  not  present  itself. 


SILAS  MARKER.  83 

"  It  isn't  Jem  Kodney  as  has  done  this  work,  Mas- 
ter Marner,"  said  the  landlord.  "You  mustn't  be 
a-casting  your  eye  at  poor  Jem.  There  may  be  a  bit 
of  a  reckoning  against  Jem  for  the  matter  of  a  hare  or 
so,  if  anybody  was  bound  to  keep  their  eyes  staring 
open,  and  niver  to  wink — but  Jem's  been  a-sitting 
here  drinking  his  can,  like  the  decentest  man  i'  the 
parish,  since  before  you  left  your  house,  Master  Mar- 
ner, by  your  own  account." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey ;  "  let's  have  no  accusing 
o'  the  innicent.  That  isn't  the  law.  There  must  be 
folks  to  swear  again'  a  man  before  he  can  be  ta'en  up. 
Let's  have  no  accusing  o'  the  innicent,  Master  Mar- 
ner." 

Memory  was  not  so  utterly  torpid  in  Silas  that  it 
could  not  be  wakened  by  these  words.  "With  a  move- 
ment of  compunction,  as  new-and  strange  to  him  as 
everything  else  within  the  last  hour,  Tie  started  from 
his"  chair  and  went  close  up  to  Jem,  looking  at  him 
as  if  he  wanted  to  assure  himself  of  the  expression  in 
his  face. 

"I  was  wrong,"  he  said — "yes,  yes — I  ought  to 
have  thought.  There's  nothing  to  witness  against 
you,  Jem.  Only  you'd  been  into  my  house  oftener 
than  anybody  else,  and  so  you  came  into  my  head. 
I  don't  accuse  you — I  won't  accuse  anybody — only," 
he  added,  lifting  up  his  hands  to  his  head,  and  turning 
away  with  bewildered  misery,  "  I  try — I  try  to  think 
where  my  money  can  be." 

"  Ay,  ay,  they're  gone  where  it's  hot  enough  to  melt 
'em,  I  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Macey. 

"  Tchuh !"  said  the  farrier.     And  then  he  asked, 


84  SILAS  MAKNER. 

with  a  cross-examining  air,  "How much  money  might 
there  be  in  the  bags,  Master  Marner  ?" 

"  Two  hundred  and  seventy -two  pounds,  twelve  and 
sixpence,  last  night  when  I  counted  it,"  said  Silas, 
seating  himself  again,  with  a  groan. 

"  Pooh !  why,  they'd  be  none  so  heavy  to  carry. 
Some  tramp's  been  in,  that's  all ;  and  as  for  the  no 
footmarks,  and  the  bricks  and  the  sand  being  all  right 
— why,  your  eyes  are  pretty  much  like  a  insect's,  Mas- 
ter Marner ;  they're  obliged  to  look  so  close,  you  can't 
see  much  at  a  time.  It's  my  opinion  as,  if  I'd  been 
you,  or  you'd  been  me — for  it  comes  to  the  same  thing 
— you  wouldn't  have  thought  you'd  found  everything 
as  you  left  it.  But  what  I  vote  is,  as  two  of  the  sen- 
siblest  o'  the  company  should  go  with  you  to  Master 
Kench,  the  constable's  —  he's  ill  i'  bed,  I  know  that 
much — and  get  him  to  appoint  one  of  us  his  deppity ; 
for  that's  the  law,  and  I  don't  think  anybody  'ull  take 
upon  him  to  contradick  me  there.  It  isn't  much  of  a 
walk  to  Kench's;  and  then,  if  it's  me  as  is  deppity,  I'll 
go  back  with  you,  Master  Marner,  and  examine  your 
primises ;  and  if  anybody's  got  any  fault  to  find  with 
that,  I'll  thank  him  to  stand  up  and  say  it  out  like  a 
man." 

By  this  pregnant  speech  the  farrier  had  re-establish- 
ed his  self-complacency,  and  waited  with  confidence  to 
hear  himself  named  as  one  of  the  superlatively  sensi- 
ble men. 

"  Let  us  see  how  the  night  is,  though,"  said  the  land- 
lord, who  also  considered  himself  personally  concern- 
ed in  this  proposition.  "Why, it  rains  heavy  still," 
he  said,  returning  from  the  door. 


SILAS  MARNER.  85 

"Well,  I'm  not  the  man  to  be  afraid  o'  the  rain," 
said  the  farrier.  "  For  it  '11  look  bad  when  Justice 
Malam  hears  as  respectable  men  like  us  had  a  infor- 
mation laid  before  'em  and  took  no  steps." 

The  landlord  agreed  with  this  view,  and  after  tak- 
ing the  sense  of  the  company,  and  duly  rehearsing  a 
small  ceremony  known  in  high  ecclesiastical  life  as  the 
nolo  episcoparij  he  consented  to  take  on  himself  the 
chill  dignity  of  going  to  Kench's.  But  to  the  farrier's 
strong  disgust,  Mr.  Macey  now  started  an  objection  to 
his  proposing  himself  as  a  deputy-constable ;  for  that 
oracular  old  gentleman,  claiming  to  know  the  law, 
stated,  as  a  fact  delivered  to  him  by  his  father,  that  no 
doctor  could  be  a  constable. 

"  And  you're  a  doctor,  I  reckon,  though  you're  only 
a  cow-doctor — for  a  fly's  a  fly,  though  it  may  be  a 
hoss-fly,"  concluded  Mr.  Macey,  wondering  a  little  at 
his  own  "  'cuteness." 

There  was  a  hot  debate  upon  this,  the  farrier  being 
of  course  indisposed  to  renounce  the  quality  of  doctor, 
but  contending  that  a  doctor  could  be  a  constable  if 
he  liked — the  law  meant,  he  needn't  be  one  if  he  didn't 
like.  Mr.  Macey  thought  this  was  nonsense,  since  the 
law  was  not  likely  to  be  fonder  of  doctors  than  of  oth- 
er folks.  Moreover,  if  it  was  in  the  nature  of  doctors 
more  than  of  other  men  not  to  like  being  constables, 
how  came  Mr.  Dowlas  to  be  so  eager  to  act  in  that  ca- 
pacity ? 

11  /  don't  want  to  act  the  constable,"  said  the  farrier, 
driven  into  a  corner  by  this  merciless  reasoning ;  M  and 
there's  no  man  can  say  it  of  me,  if  he'd  tell  the  truth. 
But  if  there's  to  be  any  jealousy  and  ending  about 


86  SILAS  MARNER. 

going  to  Kench's  in  the  rain,  let  them  go  as  like  it — 
you  won't  get  me  to  go,  I  can  tell  you." 

By  the  landlord's  intervention,  however,  the  dispute 
was  accommodated.  Mr.  Dowlas  consented  to  go  as 
a  second  person,  disinclined  to  act  officially ;  and  so 
poor  Silas,  furnished  with  some  old  coverings,  turned 
out  with  his  two  companions  into  the  rain  again,  think- 
ing of  the  long  night-hours  before  him,  not  as  those  do 
who  long  to  rest,  but  as  those  who  expect  to  "  watch 
for  the  morning." 


SILAS  MARNER.  87 


CHAPTER  VHL 

When  Godfrey  Cass  returned  from  Mrs.  Osgood's 
party  at  midnight,  he  was  not  much  surprised  to  learn 
that  Dunsey  had  not  come  home.  Perhaps  he  had 
not  sold  Wildfire,  and  was  waiting  for  another  chance 
— perhaps,  on  that  foggy  afternoon,  he  had  preferred 
housing  himself  at  the  Red  Lion  at  Batherley  for  the 
night,  if  the  run  had  kept  him  in  that  neighbourhood ; 
for  he  was  not  likely  to  feel  much  concern  about  leav- 
ing his  brother  in  suspense.  Godfrey's  mind  was  too 
full  of  Nancy  Lammeter's  looks  and  behaviour,  too 
full  of  the  exasperation  against  himself  and  his  lot, 
which  the  sight  of  her  always  produced  in  him,  for 
him  to  give  much  thought  to  Wildfire  or  to  the  prob- 
abilities of  Dunstan's  conduct. 

The  next  morning  the  whole  village  was  excited 
by  the  story  of  the  robbery,  and  Godfrey,  like  every 
one  else,  was  occupied  in  gathering  and  discussing 
news  about  it,  and  in  visiting  the  Stone-pits.  The 
rain  had  washed  away  all  possibility  of  distinguishing 
foot-marks,  but  a  close  investigation  of  the  spot  had 
disclosed,  in  the  direction  opposite  to  the  village,  a  tin- 
der-box, with  a  flint  and  steel,  half  sunk  in  the  mud. 
It  was  not  Silas's  tinder-box,  for  the  only  one  he  had 
ever  had  was  still  standing  on  his  shelf;  and  the  in- 
ference generally  accepted  was,  that  the  tinder-box  in 
the  ditch  was  somehow  connected  with  the  robbery. 


88  SILAS  MARNER. 

A  small  minority  shook  their  heads,  and  intimated 
their  opinion  that  it  was  not  a  robbery  to  have  much 
light  thrown  on  it  by  tinder-boxes,  that  Master  Mar- 
ner's  tale  had  a  queer  look  with  it,  and  that  such 
things  had  been  known  as  a  man's  doing  himself  a 
mischief,  and  then  setting  the  justice  to  look  for  the 
doer.  But  when  questioned  closely  as  to  their  grounds 
for  this  opinion,  and  what  Master  Marner  had  to  gain 
by  such  false  pretences,  they  only  shook  their  heads  as 
before,  and  observed  that  there  was  no  knowing  what 
some  folks  counted  gain ;  moreover,  that  everybody 
had  a  right  to  their  own  opinions,  grounds  or  no 
grounds,  and  that  the  weaver,  as  everybody  knew,  was 
partly  crazy.  Mr.  Macey,  though  he  joined  in  the  de- 
fence of  Marner  against  all  suspicions  of  deceit,  also 
pooh-poohed  the  tinder-box ;  indeed,  repudiated  it  as 
a  rather  impious  suggestion,  tending  to  imply,  that  ev- 
erything must  be  done  by  human  hands,  and  that 
there  was  no  power  which  could  make  away  with  the 
guineas  without  moving  the  bricks.  Nevertheless,  he 
turned  round  rather  sharply  on  Mr.  Tookey,  when  the 
zealous  deputy,  feeling  that  this  was  a  view  of  the  case 
peculiarly  suited  to  a  parish-clerk,  carried  it  still  far- 
ther, and  doubted  whether  it  was  right  to  inquire  into 
a  robbery  at  all  when  the  circumstances  were  so  mys- 
terious. 

"As  if,"  concluded  Mr.  Tookey — "as  if  there  was 
nothing  but  what  could  be  made  out  by  justices  and 
constables." 

"Now,  don't  you  be  for  overshooting  the  mark, 
Tookey,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  nodding  his  head  aside,  ad- 
monishingly.     "  That's  what  you're  allays  at ;   if  I 


SILAS  MARNER.  89 

throw  a  stone  and  hit,  you  think  there's  summat  bet- 
ter than  hitting,  and  you  try  to  throw  a  stone  beyond. 
What  I  said  was  against  the  tinder-box  :  I  said  noth- 
ing against  justices  and  constables,  for  they're  o'  King 
George's  making,  and  it  'ud  be  ill-becoming  a  man  in 
a  parish  office  to  fly  out  again'  King  George." 

While  these  discussions  were  going  on  amongst  the 
group  outside  the  Eainbow,  a  higher  consultation  was 
being  carried  on  within,  under  the  presidency  of  Mr. 
Crackenthorp,  the  rector,  assisted  by  Squire  Cass  and 
other  substantial  parishioners.  It  had  just  occurred 
to  Mr.  Snell,  the  landlord — he  being,  as  he  observed, 
a  man  accustomed  to  put  two  and  two  together — to 
connect  with  the  tinder-box  which,  as  deputy -con  sta- 
ble, he  himself  had  had  the  honourable  distinction  of 
finding,  certain  recollections  of  a  pedlar  who  had  call- 
ed to  drink  at  the  house  about  a  month  before,  and 
had  actually  stated  that  he  carried  a  tinder-box  about 
with  him  to  light  his  pipe.  Here,  surely,  was  a  clue 
to  be  followed  out.  And  as  memory,  when  duly  im- 
pregnated with  ascertained  facts,  is  sometimes  surpris- 
ingly fertile,  Mr.  Snell  gradually  recovered  a  vivid  im- 
pression of  the  effect  produced  on  him  by  the  pedlar's 
countenance  and  conversation.  He  had  a  "  look  with 
his  eye"  which  fell  unpleasantly  on  Mr.  Snell's  sensi- 
tive organism.  To  be  sure,  he  didn't  say  anything 
particular — no,  except  that  about  the  tinder-box — but 
it  isn't  what  a  man  says,  it's  the  way  he  says  it.  More- 
over, he  had  a  swarthy  foreignness  of  complexion 
which  boded  little  honesty. 

"Did  he  wear  ear-rings?"  Mr.  Crackenthorp  wished 
to  know,  having  some  acquaintance  with  foreign  cus- 
toms. 


90  SILAS  MARNER. 

"Well — stay — let  me  lee,"  said  Mr.  Snell,  like  a  do- 
cile clairvoyante,  who  would  really  not  make  a  mis- 
take if  she  could  help  it.  After  stretching  the  cor- 
ners of  his  mouth  and  contracting  his  eyes,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  see  the  ear-rings,  he  appeared  to  give 
up  the  effort,  and  said,  "  Well,  he'd  got  ear-rings  in 
his  box  to  sell,  so  it's  nat'ral  to  suppose  he  might  wear 
'em.  But  he  called  at  every  house,  a'most,  in  the  vil- 
lage :  there's  somebody  else,  mayhap,  saw  'em  in  his 
ears,  though  I  can't  take  upon  me  rightly  to  say." 

Mr.  Snell  was  correct  in  his  surmise,  that  somebody 
else  would  remember  the  pedlar's  ear-rings.  For,  on 
the  spread  of  inquiry  among  the  villagers,  it  was  stated 
with  gathering  emphasis,  that  the  parson  had  wanted 
to  know  whether  the  pedlar  wore  ear-rings  in  his  ears, 
and  an  impression  was  created  that  a  great  deal  de- 
pended on  the  eliciting  of  this  fact.  Of  course  every 
one  who  heard  the  question,  not  having  any  distinct 
image  of  the  pedlar  as  without  ear-rings,  immediately 
had  an  image  of  him  with  ear-rings,  larger  or  smaller, 
as  the  case  might  be ;  and  the  image  was  presently 
taken  for  a  vivid  recollection,  so  that  the  glazier's  wife, 
a  well-intentioned  woman,  not  given  to  lying,  and 
whose  house  was  among  the  cleanest  in  the  village, 
was  ready  to  declare,  as  sure  as  ever  she  meant  to  take 
the  sacrament,  the  very  next  Christmas  that  was  ever 
coming,  that  she  had  seen  big  ear-rings,  in  the  shape 
of  the  young  moon,  in  the  pedlar's  two  ears ;  while 
Jinny  Oates,  the  cobbler's  daughter,  being  a  more  im- 
aginative person,  stated  not  only  that  she  had  seen 
them  too,  but  that  they  had  made  her  blood  creep,  as 
it  did  at  that  very  moment  while  there  she  stood. 


SILAS  MARNER.  91 

Also,  by  way  of  throwing  further  light  on  this  clue 
of  the  tinder-box,  a  collection  was  made  of  all  the  ar- 
ticles purchased  from  the  pedlar  at  various  houses,  and 
carried  to  the  Eainbow  to  be  exhibited  there.  In  fact, 
there  was  a  general  feeling  in  the  village,  that  for  the 
clearing-up  of  this  robbery  there  must  be  a  great  deal 
done  at  the  Eainbow,  and  that  no  man  need  offer  his 
wife  an  excuse  for  going  there  while  it  was  the  scene 
of  severe  public  duties. 

Some  disappointment  was  felt,  and  perhaps  a  little 
indignation  also,  when  it  became  known  that  Silas 
Marner,  on  being  questioned  by  the  Squire  and  the 
parson,  had  retained  no  other  recollection  of  the  ped- 
lar than  that  he  had  called  at  his  door,  but  had  not 
entered  his  house,  having  turned  away  at  once  when 
Silas,  holding  the  door  ajar,  had  said  that  he  wanted 
nothing.  This  had  been  Silas's  testimony,  though  he 
clutched  strongly  at  the  idea  of  the  pedlar's  being  the 
culprit,  if  only  because  it  gave  him  a  definite  image 
of  a  whereabout  for  his  gold,  after  it  had  been  taken 
away  from  its  hiding-place :  he  could  see  it  now  in 
the  pedlar's  box.  But  it  was  observed  with  some  ir- 
ritation in  the  village,  that  anybody  but  a  "blind 
creatur"  like  Marner  would  have  seen  the  man  prowl- 
ing about,  for  how  came  he  to  leave  his  tinder-box  in 
the  ditch  close  by,  if  he  hadn't  been  lingering  there  ? 
Doubtless,  he  had  made  his  observations  when  he  saw 
Marner  at  the  door.  Anybody  might  know — and  only 
look  at  him^-that  the  weaver  was  a  half-crazy  miser. 
It  was  a  wonder  the  pedlar  hadn't  murdered  him ; 
men  of  that  sort,  with  rings  in  their  ears,  had  been 
known  for  murderers  often  and  often  :  there  had  been 


92  SILAS  MAENER. 

one  tried  at  the  ^izes,  not  so  long  ago  but  what  there 
were  people  living  who  remembered  it. 

Godfrey  Cass,  indeed,  entering  the  Kainbow  during 
one  of  Mr.  Snell's  frequently  repeated  recitals  of  his 
testimony,  had  treated  it  lightly,  stating  that  he  him- 
self had  bought  a  pen-knife  of  the  pedlar,  and  thought 
him  a  merry  grinning  fellow  enough;  it  was  all  non- 
sense, he  said,  about  the  man's  evil  looks.  But  this 
was  spoken  of  in  the  village  as  the  random  talk  of 
youth,  "as  if  it  was  only  Mr. Snell  who  had  seen 
something  odd  about  the  pedlar!"  On  the  contrary, 
there  were  at  least  half-a-dozen  who  were  ready  to  go 
before  Justice  Malam,  and  give  in  much  more  striking 
testimony  than  any  the  landlord  could  furnish.  It 
was  to  be  hoped  Mr.  Godfrey  would  not  go  to  Tarley 
and  throw  cold  water  on  what  Mr.  Snell  said  there, 
and  so  prevent  the  justice  from  drawing  up  a  warrant. 
He  was  suspected  of  intending  this,  when,  after  mid- 
day, he  was  seen  setting  off  on  horseback  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Tarley. 

But  by  this  time  Godfrey's  interest  in  the  robbery 
had  faded  before  his  growing  anxiety  about  Dunstan 
and  Wildfire,  and  he  was  going,  not  to  Tarley,  but  to 
Batherley,  unable  to  rest  in  uncertainty  about  them 
any  longer.  The  possibility  that  Dunstan  had  played 
him  the  ugly  trick  of  riding  away  with  Wildfire,  to 
return  at  the  end  of  a  month,  when  he  had  gambled 
away  or  otherwise  squandered  the  price  of  the  horse, 
was  a  fear  that  urged  itself  upon  him  more,  even,  than 
the  thought  of  an  accidental  injury ;  and  now  that  the 
dance  at  Mrs.  Osgood's  was  past,  he  was  irritated  with 
himself  that  he  had  trusted  his  horse  to  Dunstan.    In- 


SILAS  MARNER.  93 

stead  of  trying  to  still  his  fears,  he  encouraged  them, 
with  that  superstitious  impression  which  clings  to  us 
all,  that  if  we  expect  evil  very  strongly  it  is  the  less 
likely  to  come ;  and  when  he  heard  a  horse  approach- 
ing at  a  trot,  and  saw  a  hat  rising  above  a  hedge  be- 
yond an  angle  of  the  lane,  he  felt  as  if  his  conjuration 
had  succeeded.  But  no  sooner  did  the  horse  come 
within  sight,  than  his  heart  sank  again.  It  was  not 
Wildfire ;  and  in  a  few  moments  more  he  discerned 
that  the  rider  was  not  Dunstan,  but  Bryce,  who  pulled 
up  to  speak,  with  a  face  that  implied  something  dis- 
agreeable. 

"Well,  Mr.  Godfrey,  that's  a  lucky  brother  of  yours, 
that  Master  Dunsey,  isn't  he?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Godfrey,  hastily. 

"Why,  hasn't  he  been  home  yet?"  said  Bryce. 

"Home?  no.  What  has  happened?  Be  quick. 
What  has  he  done  with  my  horse?" 

"Ah,  I  thought  it  was  yours,  though  he  pretended 
you  had  parted  with  it  to  him." 

"  Has  he  thrown  him  down  and  broken  his  knees?" 
said  Godfrey,  flushed  with  exasperation. 

"Worse  than  that,"  said  Bryce.  "You  see,  I'd  made 
a  bargain  with  him  to  buy  the  horse  for  a  hundred 
and  twenty — a  swinging  price,  but  I  always  liked  the 
horse.  And  what  does  he  do  but  go  and  stake  him — 
fly  at  a  hedge  with  stakes  in  it,  atop  of  a  bank  with 
a  ditch  before  it.  The  horse  had  been  dead  a  pretty 
good  while  *when  he  was  found.  So  he  hasn't  been 
home  since,  has  he  ?" 

"Home?  no,"  said  Godfrey,  "and  he'd  better  keep 
away.  Confound  me  for  a  fool !  I  might  have  known 
this  would  be  the  end  of  it." 


94  SILAS  MABNEB. 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Bryce,  "  after  I'd 
bargained  for  the  horse,  it  did  come  into  my  head  that 
he  might  be  riding  and  selling  the  horse  without  your 
knowledge,  for  I  didn't  believe  it  was  his  own.  I  knew 
Master  Dunsey  was  up  to  his  tricks  sometimes.  But 
where  can  he  be  gone  ?  He's  never  been  seen  at  Bath- 
erley.  He  couldn't  have  been  hurt,  for  he  must  have 
walked  off" 

"Hurt?"  said  Godfrey,  bitterly.  "He'll  never  be 
hurt — he's  made  to  hurt  other  people." 

"And  so  you  did  give  him  leave  to  sell  the  horse, 
eh  ?"  said  Bryce. 

"Yes;  I  wanted  to  part  with  the  horse — he  was 
always  a  little  too  hard  in  the  mouth  for  me,"  said 
Godfrey ;  his  pride  making  him  wince  under  the  idea 
that  Bryce  guessed  the  sale  to  be  a  matter  of  necessi- 
ty. "I  was  going  to  see  after  him — I  thought  some 
mischief  had  happened.  I'll  go  back  now,"  he  added, 
turning  the  horse's  head,  and  wishing  he  could  get  rid 
of  Bryce ;  for  he  felt  that  the  long-dreaded  crisis  in 
his  life  was  close  upon  him.  "  You're  coming  on  to 
Kaveloe,  aren't  you?" 

"Well,  no,  not  now,"  said  Bryce.  "I  ivas  coming 
round  there,  for  I  had  to  go  to  Flitton,  and  I  thought 
I  might  as  well  take  you  in  my  way,  and  just  let  you 
know  all  I  knew  myself  about  the  horse.  -  I  suppose 
Master  Dunsey  didn't  like  to  show  himself  till  the  ill 
news  had  blown  over  a  bit.  He's  perhaps  gone  to  pay 
a  visit  at  the  Three  Crowns,  by  Whitbridge — I  know 
he's  fond  of  the  house." 

"Perhaps  he  is,"  said  Godfrey,  rather  absently. 
Then  rousing  himself,  he  said,  with  an  effort  at  care- 


SILAS  MARKER.  1)5 

lessness,  "  We  shall  hear  of  him  soon  enough,  I'll  be 
bound* 

"Well,  here's  my  turning,"  said  Bryce,  not  surprised 
to  perceive  that  Godfrey  was  rather  "  down ;"  "  so  I'll 
bid  you  good-day,  and  wish  I  may  bring  you  better 
news  another  time." 

Godfrey  rode  along  slowly,  representing  to  himself 
the  scene  of  confession  to  his  father  from  which  he 
felt  that  there  was  now  no  longer  any  escape.  The 
revelation  about  the  money  must  be  made  the  very 
next  morning ;  and  if  he  withheld  the  rest,  Dunstan 
would  be  sure  to  come  back  shortly,  and  finding  that 
he  must  bear  the  brunt  of  his  father's  anger,  would 
tell  the  whole  story  out  of  spite,  even  though  he  had 
nothing  to  gain  by  it.  There  was  one  step,  perhaps, 
by  which  he  might  still  win  Dunstan's  silence  and  put 
off  the  evil  day :  he  might  tell  his  father  that  he  had 
himself  spent  the  money  paid  to  him  by  Fowler ;  and 
as  he  had  never  been  guilty  of  such  an  offence  before, 
the  affair  would  blow  over  after  a  little  storming.  But 
Godfrey  could  not  bend  himself  to  this.  lie  felt  that 
ill  letting  Dunstan  have  the  money,  he  had  already 
been  guilty  of  a  breach  of  trust  hardly  less  culpable 
than  that  of  spending  the  money  directly  for  his  own 
behoof;  and  yet  there  was  a  distinction  between  the 
two  aets  which  made  him  feel  that  the  one  was  so 
much  more  blackening  than  the  other  as  to  be  intol- 
erable to  him. 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  good  fellow,"  he  said  to 
himself;  "  but  I'm  not  a  scoundrel — at  least,  I'll  stop 
short  somewhere.  I'll  bear  the  consequences  of  what 
I  have  done  sooner  than  make  believe  I've  done  what 


96  SILAS  MARNEE. 

I  never  would  have  done.  I'd  never  have  spent  the 
money  for  my  own  pleasure — I  was  tortured  into  it." 
Through  the  remainder  of  this  day  Godfrey,  with 
only  occasional  fluctuations,  kept  his  will  bent  in  the 
direction  of  a  complete  avowal  to  his  father,  and  he 
withheld  the  story  of  Wildfire's  loss  till  the  next 
morning,  that  it  might  serve  him  as  an  introduction 
to  heavier  matter.  The  old  Squire  was  accustomed 
to  his  son's  frequent  absence  from  home,  and  thought 
neither  Dunstan's  nor  Wildfire's  non-appearance  a 
matter  calling  for  remark.  Godfrey  said  to  himself 
again  and  again,  that  if  he  let  slip  this  one  opportuni- 
ty of  confession,  he  might  never  have  another ;  the 
revelation  might  be  made  even  in  a  more  odious  way 
than  by  Dunstan's  malignity :  she  might  come,  as  she 
had  threatened  to  do.  And  then  he  tried  to  make  the 
scene  easier  to  himself  by  rehearsal :  he  made  up  his 
mind  how  he  would  pass  from  the  admission  of  his 
weakness  in  letting  Dunstan  have  the  money  to  the 
fact  that  Dunstan  had  a  hold  on  him  which  he  had 
been  unable  to  shake  off,  and  how  he  would  work  up 
his  father  to  expect  something  very  bad  before  he  told 
him  the  fact.  The  old  Squire  was  an  implacable  man : 
he  made  resolutions  in  violent  anger,  but  he  was  not  to 
be  moved  from  them  after  his  anger  had  subsided — 
as  fiery  volcanic  matters  cool  and  harden  into  rock. 
Like  many  violent  and  implacable  men,  he  allowed 
evils  to  grow  under  favour  of  his  own  heedlessness, 
till  they  pressed  upon  him  with  exasperating  force, 
and  then  he  turned  round  with  fierce  severity  and  be- 
came unrelentingly  hard.  This  was  his  system  with 
his  tenants :  he  allowed  them  to  get  into  arrears,  neg- 


SILAS  MARKER.  97 

lect  their  fences,  reduce  their  stock,  sell  their  straw, 
and  otherwise  go  the  wrong  way, — and  then,  when  he 
became  short  of  money  in  consequence  of  this  indul- 
gence, he  took  the  hardest  measures  and  would  listen 
to  no  appeal.  Godfrey  knew  all  this,  and  felt  it  with 
the  greater  force  because  he  had  constantly  suffered 
annoyance  from  witnessing  his  father's  sudden  fits  of 
unrelentingness,  for  which  his  own  habitual  irresolu- 
tion deprived  him  of  all  sympathy.  (He  was  not  criti- 
cal on  the  faulty  indulgence  which  preceded  these  fits ; 
that  seemed  to  him  natural  enough.)  Still  there  was 
just  the  chance,  Godfrey  thought,  that  his  father's 
pride  might  see  this  marriage  in  a  light  that  would  in- 
duce him  to  hush  it  up,  rather  than  turn  his  son  out 
and  make  the  family  the  talk  of  the  country  for  ten 
miles  round. 

This  was  the  view  of  the  case  that  Godfrey  man- 
aged to  keep  before  him  pretty  closely  till  midnight, 
and  he  went  to  sleep  thinking  that  he  had  done  with 
inward  debating.  But  when  he  awoke  in  the  still 
morning  darkness  he  found  it  impossible  to  reawaken 
his  evening  thoughts ;  it  was  as  if  they  had  been  tired 
out  and  were  not  to  be  roused  to  further  work.  In- 
stead of  arguments  for  confession,  he  could  now  feel 
the  presence  of  nothing  but  its  evil  consequences :  the 
old  dread  of  disgrace  came  back — the  old  shrinking 
from  the  thought  of  raising  a  hopeless  barrier  between 
himself  and  Nancy — the  old  disposition  to  rely  on 
chances  which  might  be  favourable  to  him,  and  save 
him  from  betrayal.  Why,  after  all,  should  he  cut  off 
the  hope  of  them  by  his  own  act?  He  had  seen  the 
matter  in  a  wrong  light  yesterday.     He  had  been  in 

E 


98  SILAS  MAKNER. 

a  rage  with  Dunstan,  and  had  thought  of  nothing  but 
a  thorough  break-up  of  their  mutual  understanding ; 
but  what  it  would  be  really  wisest  to  do,  was  to  try 
and  soften  his  father's  anger  against  Dunsey,  and  keep 
things  as  nearly  as  possible  in  their  old  condition.  If 
Dunsey  did  not  come  back  for  a  few  days  (and  God- 
frey did  not  know  but  that  the  rascal  had  enough 
money  in  his  pocket  to  enable  him  to  keep  away  still 
longer),  everything  might  blow  over. 


SILAS  AIAKtfEK.  M 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Godfrey  rose  and  took  his  own  breakfast  earlier 
than  usual,  but  lingered  in  the  wainscoted  parlour 
till  his  younger  brothers  had  finished  their  meal  and 
gone  out,  awaiting  his  father,  who  always  went  out 
and  had  a  walk  with  his  managing  man  before  break- 
fast. Every  one  breakfasted  at  a  different  hour  in  the 
Eed  House,  and  the  Squire  was  always  the  latest, 
giving  a  long  chance  to  a  rather  feeble  morning  appe- 
tite before  he  tried  it.  The  table  had  been  spread 
with  substantial  eatables  nearly  two  hours  before  he 
presented  himself — a  tall,  stout  man  of  sixty,  with  a 
face  in  which  the  knit  brow  and  rather  hard  glance 
seemed  contradicted  by  the  slack  and  feeble  mouth. 
His  person  showed  marks  of  habitual  neglect,  his 
dress  was  slovenly ;  and  yet  there  was  something  in 
the  presence  of  the  old  Squire  distinguishable  from 
that  of  the  ordinary  farmers  in  the  parish,  who  were 
perhaps  every  whit  as  refined  as  he,  but,  having 
slouched  their  way  through  life  with  a  consciousness 
of  being  in  the  vicinity  of  their  "betters,"  wanted 
that  self-possession  and  authoritativeness  of  voice  and 
carriage  which  belonged  to  a  man  who  thought  of 
superiors  as  remote  existences,  with  whom  he  had 
personally  little  more  to  do  than  with  America  or  the 
stars.  The  Squire  had  been  used  to  parish  homage 
all  his  life,  used  to  the  presupposition  that  his  family, 


100  SILAS  MARNER. 

his  tankards,  and  everything  that  was  his,  were  the 
oldest  and  the  best ;  and  as  he  never  associated  with 
any  gentry  higher  than  himself,  his  opinion  was  not 
disturbed  by  comparison. 

He  glanced  at  his  son  as  he  entered  the  room,  and 
said,  "What,  sir!  haven't  you  had  your  breakfast 
yet?"  but  there  was  no  pleasant  morning  greeting  be- 
tween them ;  not  because  of  any  unfriendliness,  but 
because  the  sweet  flower  of  courtesy  is  not  a  growth 
of  such  homes  as  the  Red  House. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Godfrey,  "  I've  had*  my  breakfast, 
but  I  was  waiting  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Ah !  well,"  said  the  Squire,  throwing  himself  in- 
differently into  his  chair,  and  speaking  in  a  ponderous 
coughing  fashion,  which  was  felt  at  Raveloe  to  be  a 
sort  of  privilege  of  his  rank,  while  he  cut  a  piece  of 
beef,  and  held  it  up  before  the  deer-hound  that  had 
come  in  with  him,  "Ring  the  bell  for  my  ale,  will 
you  ?  You  youngsters'  business  is  your  own  pleasure, 
mostly.  There's  no  hurry  about  it  for  anybody  but 
yourselves." 

The  Squire's  life  was  quite  as  idle  as  his  sons',  but 
it  was  a  fiction  kept  up  by  himself  and  his  contempo- 
raries in  Raveloe  that  youth  was  exclusively  the  pe- 
riod of  folly,  and  that  their  aged  wisdom  was  constant- 
ly in  a  state  of  endurance  mitigated  by  sarcasm.  God- 
frey waited,  before  he  spoke  again,  until  the  ale  had 
been  brought  and  the  door  closed — an  interval  during 
which  Fleet,  the  deer-hound,  had  consumed  enough 
bits  of  beef  to  make  a  poor  man's  holiday  dinner. 

"  There's  been  a  cursed  piece  of  ill-luck  with  Wild- 
fire," he  began ;  "  happened  the  day  before  yesterday." 


SILAS  MARKER.  101 

"What!  broke  his  knees?"  said  the  Squire,  after 
taking  a  draught  of  ale.  "  I  thought  you  knew  how 
to  ride  better  than  that,  sir.  I  never  threw  a  horse 
down  in  my  life.  If  I  had,  I  might  ha'  whistled  for 
another,  for  my  father  wasn't  quite  so  ready  to  un- 
string as  some  other  fathers  I  know  of.  But  they  must 
turn  over  a  new  leaf — they  must.  "What  with  mort- 
gages and  arrears,  I'm  as  short  o'  cash  as  a  roadside 
pauper.  And  that  fool  Kimble  says  the  newspaper's 
talking  about  peace.  Why,  the  country  wouldn't 
have  a  leg  to  stand  on.  Prices  'ud  run  down  like  a 
jack,  and  I  should  never  get  my  arrears,  not  if  I  sold 
all  the  fellows  up.  And  there's  that  damned  Fowler, 
I  won't  put  up  with  him  any  longer ;  I've  told  Win- 
throp  to  go  to  Cox  this  very  day.  The  lying  scoun- 
drel told  me  he'd  be  sure  to  pay  me  a  hundred  last 
month.  He  takes  advantage  because  he's  on  that  out- 
lying farm,  and  thinks  I  shall  forget  him." 

The  Squire  had  delivered  this  speech  in  a  cough- 
ing and  interrupted  manner,  but  with  no  pause  long 
enough  for  Godfrey  to  make  it  a  pretext  for  taking 
up  the  word  again.  He  felt  that  his  father  meant  to 
ward  off  any  request  for  money  on  the  ground  of  the 
misfortune  with  Wildfire,  and  that  the  emphasis  he 
had  thus  been  led  to  lay  on  his  shortness  of  cash  and 
his  arrears  was  likely  to  produce  an  attitude  of  mind 
the  most  unfavourable  for  his  own  disclosure.  But  he 
must  go  on,  now  that  he  had  begun. 

"  It's  worse  than  breaking  the  horse's  knees — he's 
been  staked  and  killed,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  his  father 
was  silent,  and  had  begun  to  cut  his  meat.  "  But  I 
wasn't  thinking  of  asking  you  to  buy  me  another 


102  SILAS  MARNER. 

horse ;  I  was  only  thinking  I'd  lost  the  means  of  pay- 
ing you  with  the  price  of  Wildfire,  as  I'd  meant  to  do. 
Dunsey  took  him  to  the  hunt  to  sell  him  for  me  the 
other  day,  and  after  he'd  made  a  bargain  for  a  hund- 
red and  twenty  with  Bryce,  he  went  after  the  hounds, 
and  took  some  fool's  leap  or  other,  that  did  for  the 
horse  at  once.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that,  I  should 
have  paid  you  a  hundred  pounds  this  morning." 

The  Squire  had  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and 
was  staring  at  his  son  in  amazement,  not  being  suffi- 
ciently quick  of  brain  to  form  a  probable  guess  as  to 
what  could  have  caused  so  strange  an  inversion  of  the 
paternal  and  filial  relations  as  this  proposition  of  his 
son  to  pay  him  a  hundred  pounds. 

"  The  truth  is,  sir — I'm  very  sorry — I  was  quite  to 
blame,"  said  Godfrey.  "  Fowler  did  pay  that  hund- 
red pounds.  He  paid  it  to  me,  when  I  was  over  there 
one  day  last  month.  And  Dunsey  bothered  me  for 
the  money,  and  I  let  him  have  it,  because  I  hoped  I 
should  be  able  to  pay  it  you  before  this." 

The  Squire  was  purple  with  anger  before  his  son 
had  done  speaking,  and  found  utterance  difficult. 
"  You  let  Dunsey  have  it,  sir !  And  how  long  have 
you  been  so  thick  with  Dunsey  that  you  must  collogue 
with  him  to  embezzle  my  money  ?  Are  you  turning 
out  a  scamp  ?  I  tell  you,  I  won't  have  it.  I'll  turn 
the  whole  pack  of  you  out  of  the  house  together,  and 
marry  again.  I'd  have  you  to  remember,  sir,  my 
property's  got  no  entail  on  it; — since  my  grandfa- 
ther's time  the  Casses  can  do  as  they  like  with  their 
land.  Eemember  that,  sir.  Let  Dunsey  have  the 
money!  Why  should  you  let  Dunsey  have  the  mon- 
ey ?    There's  some  lie  at  the  bottom  of  it." 


SILAS  MARNER.  103 

"There's  no  lie,  sir,"  said  Godfrey.  "I  wouldn't 
have  spent  the  money  myself,  but  Dunsey  bothered 
me,  and  I  was  a  fool  and  let  him  have  it.  But  I  meant 
to  pay  it,  whether  he  did  or  not.  That's  the  whole 
story.  I  never  meant  to  embezzle  money,  and  I'm 
not  the  man  to  do  it.  You  never  knew  me  do  a  dis- 
honest trick,  sir." 

"  Where's  Dunsey,  then  ?  "What  do  you  stand  talk- 
ing there  for?  Go  and  fetch  Dunsey,  as  I  tell  you, 
and  let  him  give  account  of  what  he  wanted  the  mon- 
ey for,  and  what  he's  done  with  it.  He  shall  repent 
it.  I'll  turn  him  out.  I  said  I  would,  and  I'll  do  it. 
He  shan't  brave  me.     Go  and  fetch  him." 

"Dunsey  isn't  come  back,  sir." 

"What!  did  he  break  his  own  neck,  then?"  said 
the  Squire,  with  some  disgust  at  the  idea  that,  in  that 
case,  he  could  not  fulfil  his  threat. 

"  JS"o,  he  wasn't  hurt,  I  believe,  for  the  horse  was 
found  dead,  and  Dunsey  must  have  walked  off.  I 
daresay  we  shall  see  him  again  by-and-by.  I  don't 
know  where  he  is." 

"  And  what  must  you  be  letting  him  have  my  mon- 
ey for?  Answer  me  that,"  said  the  Squire,  attacking 
Godfrey  again,  since  Dunsey  was  not  within  reach. 

"Well,  sir,  I  don't  know,"  said  Godfrey,  hesitating- 
ly. That  was  a  feeble  evasion,  but  Godfrey  was  not 
fond  of  lying,  and,  not  being  sufficiently  aware  that 
no  sort  of  duplicity  can  long  flourish  without  the  help 
of  vocal  falsehoods,  he  was  quite  unprepared  with  in- 
vented motives. 

"You  don't  know?  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  sir. 
You've  been  up  to  some  trick,  and  you've  been  brib- 


104  SILAS   MARNER. 

ing  him  not  to  tell,"  said  the  Squire,  with  a  sudden 
acuteness  which  startled  Godfrey,  who  felt  his  heart 
beat  violently  at  the  nearness  of  his  father's  guess. 
The  sudden  alarm  pushed  him  on  to  take  the  next 
step — a  very  slight  impulse  suffices  for  that  on  a 
downward  road. 

"  Why,  sir,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  with  careless 
ease,  "it  was  a  little  affair  between  me  and  Dunsey; 
it's  no  matter  to  anybody  else.  It's  hardly  worth 
while  to  pry  into  young  men's  fooleries :  it  wouldn't 
have  made  any  difference  to  you,  sir,  if  I'd  not  had 
the  bad  luck  to  lose  Wildfire.  I  should  have  paid 
you  the  money." 

"Fooleries!  Pshaw!  it's  time  you'd  done  with 
fooleries.  And  I'd  have  you  know,  sir,  you  must  ha* 
done  with  'em,"  said  the  Squire,  frowning,  and  cast- 
ing an  angry  glance  at  his  son.  "  Your  goings-on  are 
not  what  I  shall  find  money  for  any  longer.  There's 
my  grandfather  had  his  stables  full  o'  horses,  and  kept 
n  good  house  too,  and  in  worse  times,  by  what  I  can 
make  out ;  and  so  might  I,  if  I  hadn't  four  good-for- 
nothing  fellows  to  hang  on  me  like  horse-leeches. 
I've  been  too  good  a  father  to  you  all — that's  what  it 
is.     But  I  shall  pull  up,  sir." 

Godfrey  was  silent.  He  was  not  likely  to  be  very 
penetrating  in  his  judgments,  but  he  had  always  had 
a  sense  that  his  father's  indulgence  had  not  been  kind- 
ness, and  had  had  a  vague  longing  for  some  discipline 
that  would  have  checked  his  own  errant  weakness, 
and  helped  his  better  will.  The  Squire  ate  his  bread 
and  meat  hastily,  took  a  deep  draught  of  ale,  then  turn- 
ed his  chair  from  the  table,  and  began  to  speak  again. 


SILAS  MARNER.  105 

"It'll  be  all  the  worse  for  you,  you  know — you'd 
need  try  and  help  me  keep  things  together." 

"  Well,  sir,  I've  often  offered  to  take  the  manage- 
ment of  things,  but  you  know  you've  taken  it  ill  al- 
ways, and  seemed  to  think  I  wanted  to  push  you  out 
of  your  place." 

"  I  know  nothing  o'  your  offering  or  o'  my  taking 
it  ill,"  said  the  Squire,  whose  memory  consisted  in  cer- 
tain strong  impressions  unmodified  by  detail ;  "  but  I 
know,  one  while  you  seemed  to  be  thinking  o'  marry- 
ing, and  I  didn't  offer  to  put  any  obstacles  in  your 
way,  as  some  fathers  would.  I'd  as  lieve  you  married 
Lammeter's  daughter  as  anybody.  I  suppose,  if  I'd 
said  you  nay,  you'd  ha'  kept  on  with  it ;  but,  for  want 
o'  contradiction,  you've  changed  your  mind.  You're  a 
shilly-shally  fellow :  you  take  after  your  poor  mother. 
She  never  had  a  will  of  her  own ;  a  woman  has  no 
call  for  one,  if  she's  got  a  proper  man  for  her  husband. 
But  your  wife  had  need  have  one,  for  you  hardly  know 
your  own  mind  enough  to  make  both  your  legs  walk 
one  way.  The  lass  hasn't  said  downright  she  won't 
have  you,  has  she?" 

"  No,"  said  Godfrey,  feeling  very  hot  and  uncom- 
fortable ;  "  but  I  don't  think  she  will." 

"  Think !  why,  haven't  you  the  courage  to  ask  her  ? 
Do  you  stick  to  it,  you  want  to  have  her — that's  the 
thing?" 

"There's  no  other  woman  I  want  to  marry,"  said 
Godfrey^  evasively. 

"  Well,  then,  let  me  make  the  offer  for  you,  that's 
all,  if  you  haven't  the  pluck  to  do  it  yourself.  Lam- 
meter  isn't  likely  to  be  loth  for  his  daughter  to  marry 

E2 


106  SILAS  MARNER. 

into  my  family,  I  should  think.  And  as  for  the 
pretty  lass,  she  wouldn't  have  her  cousin — and  there's 
nobody  else,  as  I  see,  could  ha'  stood  in  your 
way." 

"  I'd  rather  let  it  be,  please  sir,  at  present,"  said  God- 
frey, in  alarm.  "I  think  she's  a  little  offended  with 
me  just  now,  and  I  should  like  to  speak  for  myself. 
A  man  must  manage  these  things  for  himself." 

"  Well,  speak  then  and  manage  it,  and  see  if  you 
can't  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  That's  what  a  man  must 
do  when  he  thinks  o'  marrying." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  think  of  it  at  present,  sir. 
You  wouldn't  like  to  settle  me  on  one  of  the  farms,  I 
suppose,  and  I  don't  think  she'd  come  to  live  in  this 
house  with  all  my  brothers.  It's  a  different  sort  of 
life  to  what  she's  been  used  to." 

"Not  come  to  live  in  this  house?  Don't  tell  me. 
You  ask  her,  that's  all,"  said  the  Squire,  with  a  short, 
scornful  laugh. 

"I'd  rather  let  the  thing  be,  at  present,  sir,"  said 
Godfrey.  "  I  hope  you  won't  try  to  hurry  it  on  by 
saying  anything." 

"  I  shall  do  what  I  choose,"  said  the  Squire,  "  and  I 
shall  let  you  know  I'm  master ;  else  you  may  turn  out 
and  find  an  estate  to  drop  into  somewhere  else.  Go 
out  and  tell  Winthrop  not  to  go  to  Cox's,  but  wait  for 
me.  And  tell  'em  to  get  my  horse  saddled.  And 
stop :  look  out  and  get  that  hack  o'  Dunsey's  sold,  and 
hand  me  the  money,  will  you  ?  He'll  keep  no  more 
hacks  at  my  expense.  And  if  you  know  where  he's 
sneaking — I  daresay  you  do — you  may  tell  him  to 
spare  himself  the  journey  o'  coming  back  home.     Let 


SILAS  EARNER.  107 

him  turn  ostler,  and  keep  himself.    He  shan't  hang 
on  me  any  more." 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  is,  sir ;  and  if  I  did,  it  isn't 
my  place  to  tell  him  to  keep  away,"  said  Godfrey, 
moving  towards  the  door. 

"  Confound  it,  sir,  don't  stay  arguing,  but  go  and 
order  my  horse,"  said  the  Squire,  taking  up  a  pipe. 

Godfrey  left  the  room,  hardly  knowing  whether  he 
were  more  relieved  by  the  sense  that  the  interview 
was  ended  without  having  made  any  change  in  his 
position,  or  more  uneasy  that  he  had  entangled  him- 
self still  further  in  prevarication  and  deceit.  What 
had  passed  about  his  proposing  to  Nancy  had  raised 
a  new  alarm,  lest  by  some  after-dinner  words  of  his 
father's  to  Mr.  Lammeter  he  should  be  thrown  into 
the  embarrassment  of  being  obliged  absolutely  to  de- 
cline her  when  she  seemed  to  be  within  his  reach.  He 
fled  to  his  usual  refuge,  that  of  hoping  for  some  un- 
foreseen turn  of  fortune,  some  favourable  chance  which 
would  save  him  from  unpleasant  consequences — per- 
haps even  justify  his  insincerity  by  manifesting  its 
prudence.  And  in  this  point  of  trusting  to  some 
throw  of  fortune's  dice,  Godfrey  can  hardly  be  called 
specially  old-fashioned.  Favourable  Chance,  I  fancy, 
is  the  god  of  all  men  who  follow  their  own  devices  in- 
stead of  obeying  a  law  they  believe  in.  Let  even  a 
polished  man  of  these  days  get  into  a  position  he  is 
ashamed  to  avow,  and  his  mind  will  be  bent  on  all  the 
possible  issues  that  may  deliver  him  from  the  calcu- 
lable results  of  that  position.  Let  him  live  outside  his 
income,  or  shirk  the  resolute  honest  work  that  brings 
wages,  and  he  will  presently  find  himself  dreaming  of 


108  SILAS  MARNER. 

a  possible  benefactor,  a  possible  simpleton  who  may 
be  cajoled  into  using  his  interest,  a  possible  state  of 
mind  in  some  possible  person  not  yet  forthcoming. 
Let  him  neglect  the  responsibilities  of  his  office,  and 
he  will  inevitably  anchor  himself  on  the  chance,  that 
the  thing  left  undone  may  turn  out  not  to  be  of  the 
supposed  importance.  Let  him  betray  his  friend's 
confidence,  and  he  will  adore  that  same  cunning  com- 
plexity called  Chance,  which  gives  him  the  hope  that 
his  friend  will  never  know ;  let  him  forsake  a  decent 
craft  that  he  may  pursue  the  gentilities  of  a  profession 
to  which  nature  never  called  him,  and  his  religion  will 
infallibly  be  the  worship  of  blessed  Chance,  which  he 
will  believe  in  as  the  mighty  creator  of  success.  The 
evil  principle  deprecated  in  that  religion,  is  the  order- 
ly sequence  by  which  the  seed  brings  forth  a  crop 
after  its  kind, 


SILAS   MARXEK.  109 


CHAPTEK  X. 

Justice  Malam  was  naturally  regarded  in  Tarley 
and  Kaveloe  as  a  man  of  capacious  mind,  seeing  that 
lie  could  draw  much  wider  conclusions  without  evi- 
dence than  could  be  expected  of  his  neighbours  who 
were  not  on  the  Commission  of  the  Peace.  Such  a 
man  was  not  likely  to  neglect  the  clue  of  the  tinder- 
box,  and  an  inquiry  was  set  on  foot  concerning  a  ped- 
lar, name  unknown,  with  curly  black  hair  and  a  for- 
eign complexion,  carrying  a  box  of  cutlery  and  jewel- 
lery, and  wearing  large  rings  in  his  ears.  But  either 
because  inquiry  was  too  slow-footed  to  overtake  him, 
or  because  the  description  applied  to  so  many  pedlars 
that  inquiry  did  not  know  how  to  choose  among 
them,  weeks  passed  away,  and  there  was  no  other  re- 
sult concerning  the  robbery  than  a  gradual  cessation 
of  the  excitement  it  had  caused  in  Eaveloe.  Dunstan 
Cass's  absence  was  hardly  a  subject  of  remark :  he 
had  once  before  had  a  quarrel  with  his  father,  and  had 
gone  off,  nobody  knew  whither,  to  return  at  the  end 
of  six  weeks,  take  up  his  old  quarters  unforbidden, 
and  swagger  as  usual.  His  own  family,  who  equally 
expected  this  issue,  with  the  sole  difference  that  the 
Squire  was  determined  this  time  to  forbid  him  the  old 
quarters,  never  mentioned  his  absence ;  and  when  his 
uncle  Kimble  or  Mr.  Osgood  noticed  it,  the  story  of 
his  having  killed  Wildfire,  and  committed  some  of- 


110  SILAS  MARNER. 

fence  against  his  father,  was  enough  to  prevent  sur- 
prise. To  connect  the  fact  of  Dunsey's  disappearance 
with  that  of  the  robbery  occurring  on  the  same  day, 
lay  quite  away  from  the  track  of  every  one's  thought 
— even  Godfrey's,  who  had  better  reason  than  any 
one  else  to  know  what  his  brother  was  capable  of. 
He  remembered  no  mention  of  the  weaver  between 
them  since  the  time,  twelve  years  ago,  when  it  was 
their  boyish  sport  to  deride  him;  and,  besides,  his 
imagination  constantly  created  an  alibi  for  Dunstan : 
he  saw  him  continually  in  some  congenial  haunt,  to 
which  he  had  walked  off  on  leaving  Wildfire — saw 
him  sponging  on  chance  acquaintances,  and  meditat- 
ing a  return  home  to  the  old  amusement  of  torment- 
ing his  elder  brother.  Even  if  any  brain  in  Eaveloe 
had  put  the  said  two  facts  together,  I  doubt  whether 
a  combination  so  injurious  to  the  prescriptive  respect- 
ability of  a  family  with  a  mural  monument  and  ven« 
erable  tankards,  would  not  have  been  suppressed  as  of 
unsound  tendency.  But  Christmas  puddings,  brawn, 
and  abundance  of  spirituous  liquors,  throwing  the 
mental  originality  into  the  channel  of  nightmare,  are 
great  preservatives  against  a  dangerous  spontaneity 
of  waking  thought. 

When  the  robbery  was  talked  of  at  the  Rainbow 
and  elsewhere,  in  good  company,  the  balance  contin- 
ued to  waver  between  the  rational  explanation  found- 
ed on  the  tinder-box  and  the  theory  of  an  impene- 
trable mystery  that  mocked  investigation.  The  ad- 
vocates of  the  tinder-box-and-pedlar  view  considered 
the  other  side  a  muddle-headed  and  credulous  set, 
who,  because  they  themselves  were  wall-eyed,  sup- 


SILAS  MARNER.  Ill 

posed  everybody  else  to  have  the  same  blank  outlook; 
and  the  adherents  of  the  inexplicable  more  than  hint- 
ed that  their  antagonists  were  animals  inclined  to 
crow  before  they  had  found  any  corn — mere  skim- 
ming-dishes in  point  of  depth — whose  clearsighted- 
ness consisted  in  supposing  there  was  nothing  behind 
a  barn-door  because  they  couldn't  see  through  it ;  so 
that,  though  their  controversy  did  not  serve  to  elicit 
the  fact  concerning  the  robbery,  it  elicited  some  true 
opinions  of  collateral  importance. 

But  while  poor  Silas's  loss  served  thus  to  brush  the 
slow  current  of  Eaveloe  conversation,  Silas  himself 
was  feeling  the  withering  desolation  of  that  bereave- 
ment, about  which  his  neighbours  were  arguing  at 
their  ease.  To  any  one  who  had  observed  him  before 
he  lost  his  gold,  it  might  have  seemed  that  so  wither- 
ed and  shrunken  a  life  as  his  could  hardly  be  suscep- 
tible of  a  bruise,  could  hardly  endure  any  subtraction 
but  such  as  would  put  an  end  to  it  altogether.  But 
in  reality  it  had  been  an  eager  life,  rilled  with  imme- 
diate purpose,  which  fenced  him  in  from  the  wide, 
cheerless  unknown.  It  had  been  a  clinging  life ;  and 
though  the  object  round  which  its  fibres  had  clung 
was  a  dead  disrupted  thing,  it  satisfied  the  need  for 
clinging.  But  now  the  fence  was  broken  down — the 
support  was  snatched  away.  Marner's  thoughts  could 
no  longer  move  in  their  old  round,  and  were  baffled 
by  a  blank  like  that  which  meets  a  plodding  ant 
when  the  earth  has  broken  away  on  its  homeward 
path.  The  loom  was  there,  and  the  weaving,  and  the 
growing  pattern  in  the  cloth ;  but  the  bright  treasure 
in  the  hole  under  his  feet  was  gone ;  the  prospect  of 


112  SILAS  MARNER. 

handling  and  counting  it  was  gone :  the  evening  had 
no  phantasm  of  delight  to  still  the  poor  soul's  crav- 
ing. The  thought  of  the  money  he  would  get  by  his 
actual  work  could  bring  no  joy,  for  its  meagre  image 
was  only  a  fresh  reminder  of  his  loss ;  and  hope  was 
too  heavily  crushed  by  the  sudden  blow  for  his  imag- 
ination to  dwell  on  the  growth  of  a  new  hoard  from 
that  small  beginning. 

He  filled  up  the  blank  with  grief.  As  he  sat  weav- 
ing, he  every  now  and  then  moaned  low,  like  one  in 
pain :  it  was  the  sign  that  his  thoughts  had  come  round 
again  to  the  sudden  chasm  —  to  the  empty  evening- 
time.  And  all  the  evening,  as  he  sat  in  his  loneliness 
by  his  dull  fire,  he  leaned  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and 
clasped  his  head  with  his  hands,  and  moaned  very  low 
— not  as  one  who  seeks  to  be  heard. 

And  yet  he  was  not  utterly  forsaken  in  his  trouble. 
The  repulsion  Marner  had  always  created  in  his  neigh- 
bours was  partly  dissipated  by  the  new  light  in  which 
this  misfortune  had  shown  him.  Instead  of  a  man 
who  had  more  cunning  than  honest  folks  could  come 
by,  and,  what  was  worse,  had  not  the  inclination  to 
use  that  cunning  in  a  neighbourly  way,  it  was  now 
apparent  that  Silas  had  not  cunning  enough  to  keep 
his  own.  He  was  generally  spoken  of  as  a  "poor 
mushed  creatur ;"  and  that  avoidance  of  his  neigh- 
bours, which  had  before  been  referred  to  his  ill-will, 
and  to  a  probable  addiction  to  worse  company,  was 
now  considered  mere  craziness. 

This  change  to  a  kindlier  feeling  was  shown  in  va- 
rious ways.  The  odour  of  Christmas  cooking  being 
on  the  wind,  it  was  the  season  when  superfluous  pork 


SILAS  MARNER.  113 

and  black  puddings  are  suggestive  of  charity  in  well- 
to-do  families ;  and  Silas's  misfortune  Lad  brought 
him  uppermost  in  the  memory  of  housekeepers  like 
Mrs.  Osgood.  Mr.  Crackenthorp,  too,  while  he  admon- 
ished Silas  that  his  money  had  probably  been  taken 
from  him  because  he  thought  too  much  of  it,  and  never 
came  to  church,  enforced  the  doctrine  by  a  present  of 
pigs'  pettitoes,  well  calculated  to  dissipate  unfounded 
prejudices  against  the  clerical  character.  Neighbours, 
who  had  nothing  but  verbal  consolation  to  give,  show- 
ed a  disposition  not  only  to  greet  Silas,  and  discuss 
his  misfortune  at  some  length  when  they  encountered 
him  in  the  village,  but  also  to  take  the  trouble  of  call- 
ing at  his  cottage,  and  getting  him  to  repeat  all  the 
details  on  the  very  spot ;  and  then  they  would  try  to 
cheer  him  by  saying,  "  Well,  Master  Marner,  you're 
no  worse  off  nor  other  poor  folks,  after  all ;  and  if 
you  was  to  be  crippled,  the  parish  'ud  give  you  a  'low- 
ance." 

I  suppose  one  reason  why  we  are  seldom  able  to 
comfort  our  neighbours  with  our  words  is,  that  our 
goodwill  gets  adulterated,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  before 
it  can  pass  our  lips.  We  can  send  black  puddings  and 
pettitoes  without  giving  them  a  flavour  of  our  own 
egoism ;  but  language  is  a  stream  that  is  almost  sure 
to  smack  of  a  mingled  soil.  There  was  a  fair  propor- 
tion of  kindness  in  Eaveloe ;  but  it  was  often  of  a 
beery  and  bungling  sort,  and  took  the  shape  least  al- 
lied to  the  complimentary  and  hypocritical. 

Mr.  Macey,  for  example,  coming  one  evening  ex- 
pressly to  let  Silas  know  that  recent  events  had  given 
him  the  advantage  of  standing  more  favourably  in  the 


114  SILAS  MARNER. 

opinion  of  a  man  whose  judgment  was  not  formed 
lightly,  opened  the  conversation  by  saying,  as  soon  as 
he  had  seated  himself  and  adjusted  his  thumbs — 

"  Come,  Master  Marner,  why,  you've  no  call  to  sit 
a-moaning.  You're  a  deal  better  off  to  ha'  lost  your 
money,  nor  to  ha'  kep  it  by  foul  means.  I  used  to 
think,  when  you  first  come  into  these  parts,  as  you 
were  no  better  nor  you  should  be ;  you  were  younger 
a  deal  than  what  you  are  now ;  but  you  were  allays  a 
staring,  white-faced  creatur,  partly  like  a  bald-faced 
calf,  as  I  may  say.  But  there's  no  knowing :  it  isn't 
every  queer-looksed  thing  as  Old  Harry's  had  the 
making  of — I  mean,  speaking  o'  toads  and  such ;  for 
they're  often  harmless,  like,  and  useful  against  varmin. 
And  it's  pretty  much  the  same  wi'  you,  as  fur  as  I  can 
see.  Though  as  to  the  yarbs  and  stuff  to  cure  the 
breathing,  if  you  brought  that  sort  o'  knowledge  from 
distant  parts,  you  might  ha'  been  a  bit  freer  of  it.  And 
if  the  knowledge  wasn't  well  come  by,  why,  you  might 
ha'  made  up  for  it  by  coming  to  church  reg'lar ;  for, 
as  for  the  children  as  the  Wise  Woman  charmed,  I've 
been  at  the  christening  of  'em  again  and  again,  and 
they  took  the  water  just  as  well.  And  that's  reason- 
able ;  for  if  Old  Harry's  a  mind  to  do  a  bit  o'  kind- 
ness for  a  holiday,  like,  who's  got  anything  against  it  ? 
That's  my  thinking ;  and  I've  been  clerk  o'  this  par- 
ish forty  year,  and  I  know,  when  the  parson  and  me 
does  the  cussing  of  a  Ash-Wednesday,  there's  no  cuss- 
ing o'  folks  as  have  a  mind  to  be  cured  without  a  doc- 
tor, let  Kimble  say  what  he  will.  And  so,  Master 
Marner,  as  I  was  saying — for  there's  windings  i'  things 
as  they  may  carry  you  to  the  fur  end  o'  the  prayer- 


SILAS  MARNER.  115 

book  afore  you  get  back  to  'em — my  advice  is,  as  you 
keep  up  your  sperrits ;  for  as  for  thinking  you're  a 
deep  un,  and  ha'  got  more  inside  you  nor  'ull  bear  day- 
light, I'm  not  o'  that  opinion  at  all,  and  so  I  tell  the 
neighbours.  For,  says  I,  you  talk  o'  Master  Marner 
making  out  a  tale — why,  it's  nonsense,  that  is :  it  'ud 
take  a  'cute  man  to  make  a  tale  like  that ;  and,  says  I, 
he  looked  as  scared  as  a  rabbit." 

During  this  discursive  address  Silas  had  continued 
motionless  in  his  previous  attitude,  leaning  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  and  pressing  his  hands  against  his  head. 
Mr.  Macey,  not  doubting  that  he  had  been  listened  to, 
paused,  in  the  expectation  of  some  appreciatory  reply, 
but  Marner  remained  silent.  He  had  a  sense  that  the 
old  man  meant  to  be  good-natured  and  neighbourly ; 
but  the  kindness  fell  on  him  as  sunshine  falls  on  the 
wretched — he  had  no  heart  to  taste  it,  and  felt  that  it 
was  very  far  off  him. 

"  Come,  Master  Marner,  have  you  got  nothing  to 
say  to  that?"  said  Mr.  Macey  at  last,  with  a  slight  ac- 
cent of  impatience. 

"Oh,"  said  Marner,  slowly,  shaking  his  head  be- 
tween his  hands,  "  I  thank  you — thank  you — kindly." 

"  Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure :  I  thought  you  would,"  said 
Mr.  Macey ;  "  and  my  advice  is — have  you  got  a  Sun- 
day suit?" 

"  No,"  said  Marner. 

"  I  doubted  it  was  so,"  said  Mr.  Macey.  "  Now,  let 
me  advise  you  to  get  a  Sunday  suit :  there's  Tookey, 
he's  a  poor  creatur,  but  he's  got  my  tailoring  business, 
and  some  o'  my  money  in  it,  and  he  shall  make  a  suit 
at  a  low  price,  and  give  you  trust,  and  then  you  can 


116  SILAS   MARNER. 

come  to  church,  and  be  a  bit  neighbourly.  Why 
you've  never  heared  me  say  'Amen'  since  you  come 
into  these  parts,  and  I  recommend  you  to  lose  no  time, 
for  it'll  be  poor  work  when  Tookey  has  it  all  to  him- 
self, for  I  mayn't  be  equil  to  stand  i'  the  desk  at  all, 
come  another  winter."  Here  Mr.  Macey  paused,  per- 
haps expecting  some  sign  of  emotion  in  his  hearer; 
but  not  observing  any,  he  went  on.  "  And  as  for  the 
money  for  the  suit  o'  clothes,  why,  you  get  a  matter 
of  a  pound  a- week  at  your  weaving,  Master  Marner, 
and  you're  a  young  man,  eh,  for  all  you  look  so  mush- 
ed. Why,  you  couldn't  ha'  been  rlve-and-twenty  when 
you  came  into  these  parts,  eh?" 

Silas  started  a  little  at  the  change  to  a  questioning 
tone,  and  answered  mildly,  "I  don't  know;  I  can't 
rightly  say — it's  a  long  while  since." 

After  receiving  such  an  answer  as  this,  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  Mr.  Macey  observed,  later  on  in  the  even- 
ing at  the  Eainbow,  that  Marner's  head  was  "  all  of  a 
muddle,"  and  that  it  was  to  be  doubted  if  he  ever 
knew  when  Sunday  came  round,  which  showed  him 
a  worse  heathen  than  many  a  dog. 

Another  of  Silas's  comforters,  besides  Mr.  Macey, 
came  to  him  with  a  mind  highly  charged  on  the  same 
topic.  This  was  Mrs.  Winthrop,  the  wheelwright's 
wife.  The  inhabitants  of  Eaveloe  were  not  severely 
regular  in  their  church-going,  and  perhaps  there  was 
hardly  a  person  in  the  parish  who  would  not  have 
held  that  to  go  to  church  every  Sunday  in  the  cal- 
endar would  have  shown  a  greedy  desire  to  stand  well 
with  Heaven,  and  get  an  undue  advantage  over  their 
neighbours — a  wish  to  be  better  than  the  "  common 


SILAS   MARNER.  117 

run,"  that  would  have  implied  a  reflection  on  those 
who  had  had  godfathers  and  godmothers  as  well  as 
themselves,  and  had  an  equal  right  to  the  burying- 
service.  At  the  same  time,  it  was  understood  to  be 
requisite  for  all  who  were  not  household  servants,  or 
young  men,  to  take  the  sacrament  at  one  of  the  great 
festivals :  Squire  Cass  himself  took  it  on  Christmas- 
day  ;  while  those  who  were  held  to  be  "  good  livers" 
went  to  church  with  greater,  though  still  with  mod- 
erate frequency. 

Mrs.  "Winthrop  was  one  of  these :  she  was  in  all  re- 
spects a  woman  of  scrupulous  conscience,  so  eager  for 
duties,  that  life  seemed  to  offer  them  too  scantily  un- 
less she  rose  at  half-past  four,  though  this  threw  a 
scarcity  of  work  over  the  more  advanced  hours  of  the 
morning,  which  it  was  a  constant  problem  with  her  to 
remove.  Yet  she  had  not  the  vixenish  temper  which 
is  sometimes  supposed  to  be  a  necessary  condition  of 
such  habits :  she  was  a  very  mild,  patient  woman, 
whose  nature  it  was  to  seek  out  all  the  sadder  and 
more  serious  elements  of  life,  and  pasture  her  mind 
upon  them.  She  was  the  person  always  first  thought 
of  in  Kaveloe  when  there  was  illness  or  death  in  a 
family,  when  leeches  were  to  be  applied,  or  there  was 
a  sudden  disappointment  in  a  monthly  nurse.  She 
was  a  "comfortable  woman"  —  good-looking,  fresh- 
complexioned,  having  her  lips  always  slightly  screw- 
ed, as  if  she  felt  herself  in  a  sick-room  with  the  doctor 
or  the  clergyman  present.  But  she  was  never  whim- 
pering ;  no  one  had  seen  her  shed  tears ;  she  was  sim- 
ply grave  and  inclined  to  shake  her  head  and  sigh,  al- 
most imperceptibly,  like  a  funereal  mourner  who  is 


118  SILAS  MARNEE. 

not  a  relation.  It  seemed  surprising  that  Ben  Win- 
throp,  who  loved  his  quart-pot  and  his  joke,  got  along 
so  well  with  Dolly ;  but  she  took  her  husband's  jokes 
and  joviality  as  patiently  as  everything  else,  consider- 
ing that  "  men  would  be  so,"  and  viewing  the  stronger 
sex  in  the  light  of  animals  whom  it  had  pleased  lleav- 
en  to  make  naturally  troublesome,  like  bulls  and  tur- 
key-cocks. 

This  good  wholesome  woman  could  hardly  fail  to 
have  her  mind  drawn  strongly  towards  Silas  Marner, 
now  that  he  appeared  in  the  light  of  a  sufferer ;  and 
one  Sunday  afternoon  she  took  her  little  boy  Aaron 
with  her,  and  went  to  call  on  Silas,  carrying  in  her 
hand  some  small  lard-cakes,  flat  paste-like  articles, 
much  esteemed  in  Eaveloe.  Aaron,  an  apple-cheeked 
youngster  of  seven,  with  a  clean  starched  frill,  which 
looked  like  a  plate  for  the  apples,  needed  all  his  ad- 
venturous curiosity  to  embolden  him  against  the  pos- 
sibility that  the  big-eyed  weaver  might  do  him  some 
bodily  injury ;  and  his  dubiety  was  much  increased 
when,  on  arriving  at  the  Stone-pits,  they  heard  the 
mysterious  sound  of  the  loom. 

"Ah,  it  is  as  I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Winthrop, 
sadly. 

They  had  to  knock  loudly  before  Silas  heard  them ; 
but  when  he  did  come  to  the  door,  he  showed  no  im- 
patience, as  he  would  once  have  done,  at  a  visit  that 
had  been  unasked  for  and  unexpected.  Formerly, 
his  heart  had  been  as  a  locked  casket,  with  its  treas- 
ure inside ;  but  now  the  casket  was  empty,  and  the 
lock  was  broken.  Left  groping  in  darkness,  with  his 
prop  utterly  gone,  Silas  had  inevitably  a  sense,  though 


SILAS  MARKER.  119 

a  dull  and  half-despairing  one,  that  if  any  help  came 
to  him  it  must  come  from  without;  and  there  was  a 
slight  stirring  of  expectation  at  the  sight  of  his  fellow  - 
men,  a  faint  consciousness  of  dependence  on  their 
goodwill.  He  opened  the  door  wide  to  admit  Dolly, 
but  without  otherwise  returning  her  greeting  than  by 
moving  the  arm-chair  a  few  inches  as  a  sign  that  she 
was  to  sit  down  in  it.  Dolly,  as  soon  as  she  was  seat- 
ed, removed  the  white  cloth  that  covered  her  lard- 
cakes,  and  said  in  her  gravest  way — 

"I'd  a  baking  yisterday,  Master  Marner,  and  the 
lard-cakes  turned  out  better  nor  common,  and  I'd  ha' 
asked  you  to  accept  some,  if  you'd  thought  well.  I 
don't  eat  such  things  myself,  for  a  bit  o'  bread's  what 
I  like  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other ;  but  men's 
stomichs  are  made  so  comical,  they  want  a  change — 
they  do,  I  know,  God  help  'em." 

Dolly  sighed  gently  as  she  held  out  the  cakes  to 
Silas,  who  thanked  her  kindly,  and  looked  very  close 
at  them,  absently,  being  accustomed  to  look  so  at  ev- 
erything he  took  into  his  hand — eyed  all  the  while  by 
the  wondering  bright  orbs  of  the  small  Aaron,  who 
had  made  an  outwork  of  his  mother's  chair,  and  was 
peering  round  from  behind  it. 

"There's  letters  pricked  on  'em,"  said  Dolly.  "I 
can't  read  'em  myself,  and  there's  nobody,  not  Mr. 
Macey  himself,  rightly  knows  what  they  mean;  but 
they've  a  good  meaning,  for  they're  the  same  as  is  on 
the  pulpit-cloth  at  church.  What  are  they,  Aaron, 
my  dear?" 

Aaron  retreated  completely  behind  his  outwork. 

"0  go,  that's  naughty,"  said  his  mother,  mildly. 


120  SILAS  MARNER. 

"  Well,  whativer  the  letters  are,  they've  a  good  mean- 
ing; and  its  a  stamp  as  has  been  in  our  house,  Ben 
says,  ever  since  he  was  a  little  un,  and  his  mother 
used  to  put  it  on  the  cakes,  and  I've  allays  put  it  on 
too ;  for  if  there's  any  good,  we've  need  of  it  i'  this 
world." 

"  It's  I.  H.  S.,"  said  Silas,  at  which  proof  of  learn- 
ing Aaron  peeped  round  the  chair  again. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  you  can  read  'em  off,"  said  Dolly. 
"Ben's  read  'em  to  me  many  and  many  a  time,  but 
they  slip  out  o'  my  mind  again ;  the  more's  the  pity, 
for  they're  good  letters,  else  they  wouldn't  be  in  the 
church ;  and  so  I  prick  'em  on  all  the  loaves  and  all 
the  cakes,  though  sometimes  they  won't  hold,  because 
o'  the  rising — for,  as  I  said,  if  there's  any  good  to  be 
got,  we've  need  on  it  i'  this  world — that  we  have ;  and 
I  hope  they'll  bring  good  to  you,  Master  Marner,  for 
its  wi'  that  will  I  brought  you  the  cakes ;  and  you  see 
the  letters  have  held  better  nor  common." 

Silas  was  as  unable  to  interpret  the  letters  as  Dolly, 
but  there  was  no  possibility  of  misunderstanding  the 
desire  to  give  comfort  that  made  itself  heard  in  her 
quiet  tones.  He  .said,  with  more  feeling  than  before 
— "  Thank  you — thank  you  kindly."  But  he  laid 
down  the  cake  and  seated  himself  absently — drearily 
unconscious  of  any  distinct  benefit  towards  which  the 
cake  and  the  letters,  or  even  Dolly's  kindness,  could 
tend  for  him. 

"  Ah,  if  there's  good  anywhere,  we've  need  of  it," 
repeated  Dolly,  who  did  not  lightly  forsake  a  service- 
able phrase.  She  looked  at  Silas  pityingly  as  she 
went  on.     "  But  you  didn't  hear  the  church-bells  this 


SILAS  MAENER.  121 

morning,  Master  Marner.  I  doubt  you  didn't  know 
it  was  Sunday.  Living  so  lone  here,  you  lose  your 
count,  I  daresay ;  and  then,  when  your  loom  makes  a 
noise,  you  can't  hear  the  bells,  more  partic'lar  now  the 
frost  kills  the  sound." 

"  Yes,  I  did ;  I  heard  'em,"  said  Silas,  to  whom  Sun- 
day bells  were  a  mere  accident  of  the  day,  and  not 
part  of  its  sacredness.  There  had  been  no  bells  in 
Lantern  Yard. 

"Dear  heart!"  said  Dolly, pausing  before  she  spoke 
again.  "  But  what  a  pity  it  is  you  should  work  of  a 
Sunday,  and  not  clean  yourself — if  you  didn't  go  to 
church ;  for  if  you'd  a  roasting  bit,  it  might  be  as  you 
couldn't  leave  it,  being  a  lone  man.  But  there's  the 
bakehus,  if  you  could  make  up  your  mind  to  spend  a 
twopence  on  the  oven  now  and  then, — not  every 
week,  in  course — I  shouldn't  like  to  do  that  myself, — 
you  might  carry  your  bit  o'  dinner  there,  for  it's  noth- 
ing but  right  to  have  a  bit  o'  summat  hot  of  a  Sun- 
day, and  not  to  make  it  as  you  can't  know  your  din\ 
ner  from  Saturday.  But  now,  upo'  Christmas-day, 
this  blessed  Christmas  as  is  ever  coming,  if  you  was 
to  take  your  dinner  to  the  bakehus,  and  go  to  church, 
and  see  the  holly  and  the  yew,  and  hear  the  anthim, 
and  then  take  the  sacramen',  you'd  be  a  deal  the  bet- 
ter, and  you'd  know  which  end  you  stood  on,  and  you 
could  put  your  trust  i'  Them  as  knows  better  nor  we 
do,  seein'  you'd  ha'  done  what  it  lies  on  us  all  to  do." 

Dolly's  exhortation,  which  was  an  unusually  long 
effort  of  speech  for  her,  was  uttered  in  the  soothing 
persuasive  tone  with  which  she  would  have  tried  to 
prevail  on  a  sick  man  to  take  his  medicine,  or  a  basin 

F 


122  SILAS  MARNER. 

of  gruel  for  which  he  had  no  appetite.  Silas  had  nev- 
er before  been  closely  urged  on  „the  point  of  his  ab- 
sence from  church,  which  had  only  been  thought  of  as 
a  part  of  his  general  queerness ;  and  he  was  too  direct 
and  simple  to  evade  Dolly's  appeal. 

"Nay,  nay," he  said,  "I  know  nothing  of  church. 
I've  never  been  to  church." 

"No!"  said  Dolly,  in  a  low  tone  of  wonderment. 
Then  bethinking  herself  of  Silas's  advent  from  an  un- 
known country,  she  said,  "  Could  it  ha'  been  as  they'd 
no  church  where  you  was  born?" 

"  0  yes,"  said  Silas,  meditatively,  sitting  in  his  usu- 
al posture  of  leaning  on  his  knees,  and  supporting  his 
head.  "There  was  churches  —  a  many  —  it  was  a 
big  town.  But  I  knew  nothing  of  'em — I  went  to 
chapel." 

Dolly  was  much  puzzled  at  this  new  word,  but  she 
was  rather  afraid  of  inquiring  further,  lest  "  chapel" 
might  mean  some  haunt  of  wickedness.  After  a  little 
thought,  she  said — 

"  Well,  Master  Marner,  it's  niver  too  late  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf,  and  if  you've  niver  had  no  church, 
there's  no  telling  the  good  it  '11  do  you.  For  I  feel  so 
set  up  and  comfortable  as  niver  was,  when  I've  been 
and  heard  the  prayers,  and  the  singing  to  the  praise 
and  glory  o'  God,  as  Mr.  Macey  gives  out — and  Mr. 
Crackenthorp  saying  good  words,  and  more  partic'lar 
on  Sacramen'  Day ;  and  if  a  bit  o'  trouble  comes,  I 
feel  as  I  can  put  up  wi'  it,  for  I've  looked  for  help  i' 
the  right  quarter,  and  gev  myself  up  to  Them  as  we 
must  all  give  ourselves  up  to  at  the  last ;  and  if  we'n 
done  our  part,  it  isn't  to  be  believed  as  Them  as  are 


SILAS  MARNER.  123 

above  us  'ull  be  worse  nor  we  are,  and  come  short  o' 
Theirn." 

Poor  Dolly's  exposition  of  her  simple  Kaveloe  the- 
ology fell  rather  unmeaningly  on  Silas's  ears,  for  there 
was  no  word  in  it  that  could  rouse  a  memory  of  what 
he  had  known  as  religion,  and  his  comprehension  was 
quite  baffled  by  the  plural  pronoun,  which  was  no 
heresy  of  Dolly's,  but  only  her  way  of  avoiding  a  pre- 
sumptuous familiarity.  He  remained  silent,  not  feel- 
ing inclined  to  assent  to  the  part  of  Dolly's  speech 
which  he  fully  understood — her  recommendation  that 
he  should  go  to  church.  Indeed,  Silas  was  so  unac- 
customed to  talk  beyond  the  brief  questions  and  an- 
swers necessary  for  the  transaction  of  his  simple  busi- 
ness, that  words  did  not  easily  come  to  him  without 
the  urgency  of  a  distinct  purpose. 

But  now,  little  Aaron,  having  become  used  to  the 
weaver's  awful  presence,  had  advanced  to  his  mother's 
side,  and  Silas,  seeming  to  notice  him  for  the  first  time, 
tried  to  return  Dolly' s  signs  of  goodwill  by  offering 
the  lad  a  bit  of  lard-cake.  Aaron  shrank  back  a  lit- 
tle, and  rubbed  his  head  against  his  mother's  shoulder, 
but  still  thought  the  piece  of  cake  worth  the  risk  of 
putting  his  hand  out  for  it. 

"  0,  for  shame,  Aaron,"  said  his  mother,  taking  him 
on  her  lap,  however ;  "  why,  you  don't  want  cake  again 
yet  awhile.  He's  wonderful  hearty,"  she  went  on,  with 
a  little  sigh — ' '  that  he  is,  God  knows.  He's  my  young- 
est son,  and  we  spoil  him  sadly,  for  either  me  or  the 
father  must  allays  hev  him  in  our  sight — that  we 
must." 

She  stroked  Aaron's  brown  head,  and  thought  it 


124  SILAS  MARNER. 

must  do  Master  Marner  good  to  see  such  a  "pictur 
of  a  child."  But  Marner,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hearth,  saw  the  neat-featured  rosy  face  as  a  mere  dim 
round,  with  two  dark  spots  in  it. 

"And  he's  got  a  voice  like  a  bird — you  wouldn't 
think,"  Dolly  went  on ;  "  he  can  sing  a  Christmas  car- 
ril  as  his  father's  taught  him ;  and  I  take  it  for  a  token 
as  he'll  come  to  good,  as  he  can  learn  the  good  tunes 
so  quick.  Come,  Aaron,  stan'  up  and  sing  the  carril 
to  Master  Marner,  come." 

Aaron  replied  by  rubbing  his  forehead  against  his 
mother's  shoulder. 

' '  O,  that's  naughty, ' '  said  Dolly,  gently.  '  !  Stan'  up, 
when  mother  tells  you,  and  let  me  hold  the  cake  till 
you've  done." 

Aaron  was  not  indisposed  to  display  his  talents, 
even  to  an  ogre,  under  protecting  circumstances ;  and 
after  a  few  more  signs  of  coyness,  consisting  chiefly  in 
rubbing  the  backs  of  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  and  then 
peeping  between  them  at  Master  Marner,  to  see  if  he 
looked  anxious  for  the  "  carril,"  he  at  length  allowed 
his  head  to  be  duly  adjusted,  and  standing  behind  the 
table,  which  let  him  appear  above  it  only  as  far  as  his 
broad  frill,  so  that  he  looked  like  a  cherubic  head  un- 
troubled with  a  body,  he  began  with  a  clear  chirp,  and 
in  a  melody  that  had  the  rhythm  of  an  industrious 
hammer, — 

"God  rest  you  merry,  gentlemen, 
Let  nothing  you  dismay, 
For  Jesus  Christ  our  Saviour 
Was  born  on  Christmas-day." 

Dolly  listened  with  a  devout  look,  glancing  at  Mar- 


SILAS  MARNER.  125 

ner  in  some  confidence  that  this  strain  would  help  to 
allure  him.  to  church. 

"  That's  Christmas  music,"  she  said,  when  Aaron 
had  ended,  and  had  secured  his  piece  of  cake  again. 
"  There's  no  other  music  equil  to  the  Christmas  music 
— '  Hark  the  erol  angils  sing.'  And  you  may  judge 
what  it  is  at  church,  Master  Marner,  with  the  bassoon 
and  the  voices,  as  you  can't  help  thinking  you've  got 
to  a  better  place  a'ready — for  I  wouldn't  speak  ill  o' 
this  world,  seeing  as  Them  put  us  in  it  as  knows  best ; 
but  what  wi'  the  drink,  and  the  quarrelling,  and  the 
bad  illnesses,  and  the  hard  dying,  as  I've  seen  times 
and  times,  one's  thankful  to  hear  of  a  better.  The  boy 
sings  pretty,  don't  he,  Master  Marner  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Silas,  absently,  "very  pretty." 

The  Christmas  carol,  with  its  hammer-like  rhythm, 
had  fallen  on  his  ears  as  strange  music,  quite  unlike  a 
hymn,  and  could  have  none  of  the  effect  Dolly  con- 
templated. But  he  wanted  to  show  her  that  he  was 
grateful,  and  the  only  mode  that  occurred  to  him  was 
to  offer  Aaron  a  bit  more  cake. 

"O,  no,  thank  you,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly, 
holding  down  Aaron's  willing  hands.  "  We  must  be 
going  home  now.  And  so  I  wish  you  good-by,  Mas- 
ter Marner ;  and  if  you  ever  feel  anyways  bad  in  your 
inside,  as  you  can't  fend  for  yourself,  I'll  come  and 
clean  up  for  you,  and  get  you  a  bit  o'  victual,  and 
willing.  But  I  beg  and  pray  of  you  to  leave  off 
weaving  of  a  Sunday,  for  it's  bad  for  soul  and  body — 
and  the  money  as  comes  i'  that  way  'ull  be  a  bad  bed 
to  lie  down  on  at  the  last,  if  it  doesn't  fly  away,  no- 
body knows  where,  like  the  white  frost.    And  you'll 


126  ■    SILAS  MARNER. 

excuse  me  being  that  free  with  you,  Master  Mar- 
ner,  for  I  wish  you  well — I  do.  Make  your  bow, 
Aaron." 

Silas  said  "  Good-by,  and  thank  you,  kindly,"  as  he 
opened  the  door  for  Dolly,  but  he  couldn't  help  feel- 
ing relieved  when  she  was  gone — relieved  that  he 
might  weave  again  and  moan  at  his  ease.  Her  sim- 
ple view  of  life  and  its  comforts,  by  which  she  had 
tried  to  cheer  him,  was  only  like  a  report  of  unknown 
objects,  which  his  imagination  could  not  fashion.  The 
fountains  of  human  love  and  divine  faith  had  not  yet 
been  unlocked,  and  his  soul  was  still  the  shrunken 
rivulet,  with  only  this  difference,  that  its  little  groove 
of  sand  was  blocked  up,  and  it  wandered  confusedly 
against  dark  obstruction. 

And  so,  notwithstanding  the  honest  persuasions 
of  Mr.  Macey  and  Dolly  Winthrop,  Silas  spent  his 
Christmas-day  in  loneliness,  eating  his  meat  in  sad- 
ness of  heart,  though  the  meat  had  come  to  him  as  a 
neighbourly  present.  In  the  morning  he  looked  out 
on  the  black  frost  that  seemed  to  press  cruelly  on 
every  blade  of  grass,  while  the  half-icy  red  pool  shiv- 
ered under  the  bitter  wind ;  but  towards  evening  the 
snow  began  to  fall,  and  curtained  from  him  even  that 
dreary  look,  shutting  him  close  up  with  his  narrow 
grief.  And  he  sat  in  his  robbed  home  through  the 
livelong  evening,  not  caring  to  close  his  shutters  or 
lock  his  door,  pressing  his  head  between  his  hands 
and  moaning,  till  the  cold  grasped  him  and  told  him 
that  his  fire  was  grey. 

Nobody  in  this  world  but  himself  knew  that  he  was 
the  same  Silas  Marner  who  had  once  loved  his  fellow 


SILAS  MARNER.  127 

with  tender  love,  and  trusted  in  an  unseen  goodness. 
Even  to  himself  that  past  experience  had  become 
dim. 

But  in  Kaveloe  village  the  bells  rang  merrily,  and 
the  church  was  fuller  than  all  through  the  rest  of  the 
year,  with  red  faces  among  the  abundant  dark-green 
boughs — faces  prepared  for  a  longer  service  than  usu- 
al by  an  odorous  breakfast  of  toast  and  ale.  Those 
green  boughs,  the  hymn  and  anthem  never  heard  but 
at  Christmas — even  the  Athanasian  Creed,  which  was 
discriminated  from  the  others  only  as  being  longer 
and  of  exceptional  virtue,  since  it  was  only  read  on 
rare  occasions — brought  a  vague  exulting  sense,  for 
which  the  grown  men  could  as  little  have  found  words 
as  the  children,  that  something  great  and  mysterious 
had  been  done  for  them  in  heaven  above,  and  in 
earth  below,  which  they  were  appropriating  by  their 
presence.  And  then  the  red  faces  made  their  way 
through  the  black  biting  frost  to  their  own  homes, 
feeling  themselves  free  for  the  rest  of  the  day  to  eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry,  and  using  that  Christian  freedom 
without  diffidence. 

At  Squire  Cass's  family  party  that  day  nobody 
mentioned  Dunstan — nobody  was  sorry  for  his  ab- 
sence, or  feared  it  would  be  too  long.  The  doctor 
and  his  wife,  uncle  and  aunt  Kimble,  were  there,  and 
the  annual  Christmas  talk  was  carried  through  with- 
out any  omissions,  rising  to  the  climax  of  Mr.  Kim- 
ble's experience  when  he  walked  the  London  hos- 
pitals thirty  years  back,  together  with  striking  pro- 
fessional anecdotes  then  gathered.  Whereupon  cards 
followed,  with  aunt  Kimble's  annual  failure  to  follow 


128  SILAS  MAENEE. 

suit,  and  uncle  Kimble's  irascibility  concerning  the 
odd  trick  which  was  rarely  explicable  to  him,  when  it 
was  not  on  his  side,  without  a  general  visitation  of 
tricks  to  see  that  they  were  formed  on  sound  princi- 
ples :  the  whole  being  accompanied  by  a  strong  steam- 
ing odour  of  spirits-and- water. 

But  the  party  on  Christmas-day,  being  a  strictly 
family  party,  was  not  the  pre-eminently  brilliant  cele- 
bration of  the  season  at  the  Bed  House.  It  was  the 
great  dance  on  New  Year's  Eve  that  made  the  glory 
of  Squire  Cass's  hospitality,  as  of  his  forefathers',  time 
out  of  mind.  This  was  the  occasion  when  all  the  so- 
ciety of  Eaveloe  and  Tarley,  whether  old  acquaint- 
ances separated  by  long  rutty  distances,  or  cooled  ac- 
quaintances separated  by  misunderstandings  concern- 
ing runaway  calves,  or  acquaintances  founded  on  in- 
termittent condescension,  counted  on  meeting  and  on 
comporting  themselves  with  mutual  appropriateness. 
This  was  the  occasion  on  which  fair  dames  who  came 
on  pillions  sent  their  bandboxes  before  them,  supplied 
with  more  than  their  evening  costume ;  for  the  feast 
was  not  to  end  with  a  single  evening,  like  a  paltry 
town  entertainment,  where  the  whole  supply  of  eata- 
bles is  put  on  the  table  at  once,  and  bedding  is  scanty. 
The  Red  House  was  provisioned  as  if  for  a  siege ;  and 
as  for  the  spare  feather-beds  ready  to  be  laid  on  floors, 
they  were  as  plentiful  as  might  naturally  be  expected 
in  a  family  that  had  killed  its  own  geese  for  many 
generations. 

Godfrey  Cass  was  looking  forward  to  this  New 
Year's  Eve  with  a  foolish  reckless  longing,  that  made 
him  half  deaf  to  his  importunate  companion,  Anxiety. 


SILAS  MARNEK.  129 

11  Dunsey  will  be  coming  home  soon :  there  will  be 
a  great  blow-up,  and  how  will  you  bribe  his  spite  to 
silence  ?"  said  Anxiety. 

"0,  he  won't  come  home  before  New  Year's  Eve, 
perhaps,"  said  Godfrey ;  "  and  I  shall  sit  by  Nancy 
then,  and  dance  with  her,  and  get  a  kind  look  from 
her  in  spite  of  herself." 

"But  money  is  wanted  in  another  quarter,"  said 
Anxiety,  in  a  louder  voice,  "  and  how  will  you  get  it 
without  selling  your  mother's  diamond  pin  ?  And  if 
you  don't  get  it  ....  ?" 

"  Well,  but  something  may  happen  to  make  things 
easier.  At  any  rate,  there's  one  pleasure  for  me  close 
at  hand :  Nancy  is  coming." 

"Yes,  and  suppose  your  father  should  bring  mat- 
ters to  a  pass  that  will  oblige  you  to  decline  marrying 
her — and  to  give  your  reasons  ?" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  and  don't  worry  me.  I  can 
see  Nancy's  eyes,  just  as  they  will  look  at  me,  and  feel 
her  hand  in  mine  already." 

But  Anxiety  went  on,  though  in  noisy  Christmas 
company ;  refusing  to  be  utterly  quieted  even  by  much 
drinking. 

F2 


130  SILAS  MARKER. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Some  women,  I  grant,  would  not  appear  to  advan- 
tage seated  on  a  pillion,  and  attired  in  a  drab  Joseph 
and  a  drab  beaver-bonnet,  with  a  crown  resembling  a 
small  stew-pan;  for  a  garment  suggesting  a  coach- 
man's greatcoat,  cut  out  under  an  exiguity  of  cloth 
that  would  only  allow  of  miniature  capes,  is  not  well 
adapted  to  conceal  deficiencies  of  contour,  nor  is  drab 
a  color  that  will  throw  sallow  cheeks  into  lively  con- 
trast. It  was  all  the  greater  triumph  to  Miss  Nancy 
Lammeter's  beauty  that  she  looked  thoroughly  be- 
witching in  that  costume,  as,  seated  on  the  pillion  be- 
hind her  tall,  erect  father,  she  held  one  arm  round  him, 
and  looked  down,  with  open-eyed  anxiety,  at  the 
treacherous  snow-covered  pools  and  puddles,  which 
sent  up  formidable  splashings  of  mud  under  the  stamp 
of  Dobbin's  foot.  A  painter  would,  perhaps,  have  pre- 
ferred her  in  those  moments  when  she  was  free  from 
self-consciousness;  but  certainly  the  bloom  on  her 
cheeks  was  at  its  highest  point  of  contrast  with  the  sur- 
rounding drab  when  she  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  Red 
House,  and  saw  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  ready  to  lift  her  from 
the  pillion.  She  wished  her  sister  Priscilla  had  come 
up  at  the  same  time  with  the  servant,  for  then  she 
would  have  contrived  that  Mr.  Godfrey  should  have 
lifted  off  Priscilla  first,  and,  in  the  mean  time,  she 


SILAS  MAKNER.  131 

would  have  persuaded  her  father  to  go  round  to  the 
horse-block  instead  of  alighting  at  the  door-steps.  It 
was  very  painful,  when  you  had  made  it  quite  clear  to 
a  young  man  that  you  were  determined  not  to  marry 
him,  however  much  he  might  wish  it,  that  he  would 
still  continue  to  pay  you  marked  attentions ;  besides, 
why  didn't  he  always  show  the  same  attentions,  if  he 
meant  them  sincerely,  instead  of  being  so  strange  as 
Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  was,  sometimes  behaving  as  if  he 
didn't  want  to  speak  to  her,  and  taking  no  notice  of 
her  for  weeks  and  weeks,  and  then,  all  on  a  sudden, 
almost  making  love  again?  Moreover,  it  was  quite 
plain  he  had  no  real  love  for  her,  else  he  would  not 
let  people  have  that  to  say  of  him  which  they  did  say. 
Did  he  suppose  that  Miss  Nancy  Lam  meter  was  to  be 
won  by  any  man,  squire  or  no  squire,  who  led  a  bad 
life?  That  was  not  what  she  had  been  used  to  see  in 
her  own  father,  who  was  the  soberest  and  best  man  in 
that  country-side,  only  a  little  hot  and  hasty  now  and 
then,  if  things  were  not  done  to  the  minute. 

All  these  thoughts  rushed  through  Miss  Nancy's 
mind,  in  their  habitual  succession,  in  the  moments  be- 
tween her  first  sight  of  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  standing  at 
the  door  and  her  own  arrival  there.  Happily,  the 
Squire  came  out  too,  and  gave  a  loud  greeting  to  her 
father,  so  that,  somehow,  under  cover  of  this  noise,  she 
seemed  to  find  concealment  from  her  confusion  and 
neglect  of  any  suitably  formal  behaviour,  while  she 
was  being  lifted  from  the  pillion  by  strong  arms,  which 
seemed  to  find  her  ridiculously  small  and  light.  And 
there  was  the  best  reason  for  hastening  into  the  house 
at  once,  since  the  snow  was  beginning  to  fall  again, 


132  SILAS  MAKNER. 

threatening  an  unpleasant  journey  for  such  guests  as 
were  still  on  the  road.  These  were  a  small  minority ; 
for  already  the  afternoon  was  beginning  to  decline, 
and  there  would  not  be  much  time  for  the  ladies  who 
came  from  a  distance  to  attire  themselves  in  readiness 
for  the  early  tea  which  was  to  inspirit  them  for  the 
dance. 

There  was  a  buzz  of  voices  through  the  house  as 
Miss  Nancy  entered,  mingled  with  the  scrape  of  a  fid- 
dle preluding  in  the  kitchen ;  but  the  Lammeters 
were  guests  whose  arrival  had  evidently  been  thought 
of  so  much  that  it  had  been  watched  for  from  the  win- 
dows, for  Mrs.  Kimble,  who  did  the  honours  at  the  Bed 
House  on  these  great  occasions,  came  forward  to  meet 
Miss  Nancy  in  the  hall,  and  conduct  her  up-stairs. 
Mrs.  Kimble  was  the  Squire's  sister,  as  well  as  the 
doctor's  wife — a  double  dignity,  with  which  her  diam- 
eter was  in  direct  proportion ;  so  that,  a  journey  up- 
stairs being  rather  fatiguing  to  her,  she  did  not  oppose 
Miss  Nancy's  request  to  be  allowed  to  find  her  way. 
alone  to  the  Blue  Eoom,  where  the  Miss  Lammeters' 
bandboxes  had  been  deposited  on  their  arrival  in  the 
morning. 

There  was  hardly  a  bedroom  in  the  house  where 
feminine  compliments  were  not  passing  and  feminine 
toilettes  going  forward,  in  various  stages,  in  space  made 
scanty  by  extra  beds  spread  upon  the  floor ;  and  Miss 
Nancy,  as  she  entered  the  Blue  Eoom,  had  to  make 
her  little  formal  curtsy  to  a  group  of  six.  On  the  one 
hand,  there  were  ladies  no  less  important  than  the  two 
Miss  Gunns,  the  wine-merchant's  daughters  from  Ly- 
therly,  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion,  with  the  tight- 


SILAS  MARNER.  133 

est  skirts  and  the  shortest  waists,  and  gazed  at  by 
Miss  Ladbrook  (of  the  Old  Pastures)  with  a  shyness 
not  unsustained  by  inward  criticism.  Partly,  Miss 
Ladbrook  felt  that  her  own  skirt  must  be  regarded  as 
unduly  lax  by  the  Miss  Gunns,  and  partly,  that  it  was 
a  pity  the  Miss  Grunns  did  not  show  that  judgment 
which  she  herself  would  show  if  she  were  in  their 
place,  by  stopping  a  little  on  this  side  of  the  fashion. 
On  the  other  hand,  Mrs.  Ladbrook  was  standing  in 
skullcap  and  front,  with  her  turban  in  her  hand,  curt- 
sying and  smiling  blandly,  and  saying,  "  After  you, 
ma'am,"  to  another  lady  in  similar  circumstances,  who 
had  politely  offered  the  precedence  at  the  looking- 
glass. 

But  Miss  Nancy  had  no  sooner  made  her  curtsy 
than  an  elderly  lady  came  forward,  whose  full  white 
muslin  kerchief,  and  mob-cap  round  her  curls  of 
smooth  grey  hair,  were  in  daring  contrast  with  the 
puffed  yellow  satins  and  top-knotted  caps  of  her  neigh- 
bours. She  approached  Miss  Nancy  with  much  prim- 
ness, and  said,  with  a  slow,  treble  suavity, 

"Niece,  I  hope  I  see  you  well  in  health."  Miss 
Nancy  kissed  her  aunt's  cheek  dutifully,  and  answer- 
ed, with  the  same  sort  of  amiable  primness,  "Quite 
well,  I  thank  you,  aunt,  and  I  hope  I  see  you  the 
same." 

11  Thank  you,  niece,  I  keep  my  health  for  the  pres- 
ent.    And  how  is  my  brother-in-law  ?" 

These  dutiful  questions  and  answers  were  continued 
until  it  was  ascertained  in  detail  that  the  Lammeters 
were  all  as  well  as  usual,  and  the  Osgoods  likewise, 
also  that  niece  Priscilla  must  certainly  arrive  shortly, 


134  SILAS  MARNER. 

and  that  travelling  on  pillions  in  snowy  weather  was 
unpleasant,  though  a  Joseph  was  a  great  protection. 
Then  Nancy  was  formally  introduced  to  her  aunt's 
visitors,  the  Miss  Grunns,  as  being  the  daughters  of  a 
mother  known  to  their  mother,  though  now  for  the 
first  time  induced  to  make  a  journey  into  these  parts ; 
and  these  ladies  were  so  taken  by  surprise  at  finding 
such  a  lovely  face  and  figure  in  an  out-of-the-way 
country  place,  that  they  began  to  feel  some  curiosity 
about  the  dress  she  would  put  on  when  she  took  off 
her  Joseph.  Miss  Nancy,  whose  thoughts  were  al- 
ways conducted  with  the  propriety  and  moderation 
conspicuous  in  her  manners,  remarked  to  herself  that 
the  Miss  Grunns  were  rather  hard-featured  than  other- 
wise, and  that  such  very  low  dresses  as  they  wore 
might  have  been  attributed  to  vanity  if  their  shoul- 
ders had  been  pretty,  but  that,  being  as  they  were,  it 
was  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that  they  showed  their 
necks  from  a  love  of  display,  but  rather  from  some 
obligation  not  inconsistent  with  sense  and  modesty. 
She  felt  convinced,  as  she  opened  her  box,  that  this 
must  be  her  aunt  Osgood's  opinion,  for  Miss  Nancy's 
mind  resembled  her  aunt's  to  a  degree  that  everybody 
said  was  surprising,  considering  the  kinship  was  on 
Mr.  Osgood's  side ;  and  though  you  might  not  have 
supposed  it  from  the  formality  of  their  greeting,  there 
was  a  devoted  attachment  and  mutual  admiration  be- 
tween aunt  and  niece.  Even  Miss  Nancy's  refusal  of 
her  cousin  Gilbert  Osgood  (on  the  ground  solely  that 
he  was  her  cousin),  though  it  had  grieved  her  aunt 
greatly,  had  not  in  the  least  cooled  the  preference 
which  had  determined  her  to  leave  Nancy  several  of 


SILAS  MARNER.  135 

her  hereditary  ornaments,  let  Gilbert's  future  wife  be 
whom  she  might. 

Three  of  the  ladies  quickly  retired,  but  the  Miss 
Gunns  were  quite  content  that  Mrs.  Osgood's  inclina- 
tion to  remain  with  her  niece  gave  them  also  a  reason 
for  staying  to  see  the  rustic  beauty's  toilette.  And  it 
was  really  a  pleasure — from  the  first  opening  of  the 
bandbox,  where  everything  smelt  of  lavender  and  rose- 
leaves,  to  the  clasping  of  the  small  coral  necklace  that 
fitted  closely  round  her  little  white  neck.  Everything 
belonging  to  Miss  Nancy  was  of  delicate  purity  and 
nattiness :  not  a  crease  was  where  it  had  no  business 
to  be,  not  a  bit  of  her  linen  professed  whiteness  with- 
out fulfilling  its  profession ;  the  very  pins  on  her  pin- 
cushion were  stuck  in  after  a  pattern  from  which  she 
was  careful  to  allow  no  aberration;  and  as  for  her 
own  person,  it  gave  the  same  idea  of  perfect  unvary- 
ing neatness  as  the  body  of  a  little  bird.  It  is  true 
that  her  light-brown  hair  was  cropped  behind  like  a 
boy's,  and  was  dressed  in  front  in  a  number  of  flat 
rings,  that  lay  quite  away  from  her  face;  but  there 
was  no  sort  of  coiffure  that  could  make  Miss  Nancy's 
cheek  and  neck  look  otherwise  than  pretty;  and 
when  at  last  she  stood  complete  in  her  silvery  twilled 
silk,  her  lace  tucker,  her  coral  necklace,  and  coral  ear- 
drops, the  Miss  Gunns  could  see  nothing  to  criticise 
except  her  hands,  which  bore  the  traces  of  butter- 
making,  cheese-crushing,  and  even  still  coarser  work. 
But  Miss  Nancy  was  not  ashamed  of  that,  for  even 
while  she  was  dressing  she  narrated  to  her  aunt  how 
she  and  Priscilla  had  packed  their  boxes  yesterday, 
because  this  morning  was  baking  morning,  and  since 


136  SILAS  MARNER. 

they  were  leaving  home,  it  was  desirable  to  make  a 
good  supply  of  meat  pies  for  the  kitchen ;  and  as  she 
concluded  this  judicious  remark,  she  turned  to  the 
Miss  Gunns  that  she  might  not  commit  the  rudeness 
of  not  including  them  in  the  conversation.  The  Miss 
Gunns  smiled  stiffly,  and  thought  what  a  pity  it  was 
that  these  rich  country  people,  who  could  afford  to  buy 
such  good  clothes  (really  Miss  Nancy's  lace  and  silk 
were  very  costly),  should  be  brought  up  in  utter  igno- 
rance and  vulgarity.  She  actually  said  "mate"  for 
"meat,"  "  'appen"  for  "perhaps," and  "oss"for  "horse," 
which,  to  young  ladies  living  in  good  Lytherly  socie- 
ty, who  habitually  said  'orse,  even  in  domestic  priva- 
cy, and  only  said  'appen  on  the  right  occasions,  was 
necessarily  shocking.  Miss  Nancy,  indeed,  had  never 
been  to  any  school  higher  than  Dame  Tedman's :  her 
acquaintance  with  profane  literature  hardly  went  be- 
yond the  rhymes  she  had  worked  in  her  large  sampler 
under  the  lamb  and  the  shepherdess ;  and  in  order  to 
balance  an  account,  she  was  obliged  to  effect  her  sub- 
traction by  removing  visible  metallic  shillings  and  six- 
pences from  a  visible  metallic  total.  There  is  hardly  a 
maid-servant  in  these  days  who  is  not  better  informed 
than  Miss  Nancy ;  yet  she  had  the  essential  attributes 
of  a  lady — high  veracity,  delicate  honour  in  her  deal- 
ings, deference  to  others,  and  refined  personal  habits, 
— and  lest  these  should  not  suffice  to  convince  gram- 
matical fair  ones  that  her  feelings  can  at  all  resemble 
theirs,  I  will  add  that  she  was  slightly  proud  and  ex- 
acting, and  as  constant  in  her  affection  towards  a  base- 
less opinion  as  towards  an  erring  lover. 

The  anxiety  about  sister  Priscilla,  which  had  grown 


SILAS  MAENEE.  137 

rather  active  by  the  time  the  coral  necklace  was  clasp- 
ed, was  happily  ended  by  the  entrance  of  that  cheer- 
ful-looking lady  herself,  with  a  face  made  blowsy  by 
cold  and  damp.  After  the  first  questions  and  greet- 
ings, she  turned  to  Nancy,  and  surveyed  her  from 
head  to  foot — then  wheeled  her  round,  to  ascertain 
that  the  back  view  was  equally  faultless. 

11  What  do  you  think  o'  these  gowns,  aunt  Osgood?" 
said  Priscilla,  while  Nancy  helped  her  to  unrobe. 

"  Yery  handsome,  indeed,  niece,"  said  Mrs.  Osgood, 
with  a  slight  increase  of  formality.  She  always 
thought  niece  Priscilla  too  rough. 

"I'm  obliged  to  have  the  same  as  Nancy,  you  know, 
for  all  I'm  five  years  older  and  it  makes  me  look  yal- 
low ;  for  she  never  will  have  anything  without  I  have 
mine  just  like  it,  because  she  wants  us  to  look  like  sis- 
ters. And  I  tell  her  folks  'ull  think  it's  my  weakness 
makes  me  fancy  as  I  shall  look  pretty  in  what  she 
looks  pretty  in.  For  I  am  ugly — there's  no  denying 
that :  I  feature  my  father's  family.  But,  law !  I  don't 
mind,  do  you?"  Priscilla  here  turned  to  the  Miss 
Gunns,  rattling  on  in  too  much  preoccupation  with 
the  delight  of  talking,  to  notice  that  her  candour  was 
not  appreciated.  "  The  pretty  'uns  do  for  fly -catchers 
— they  keep  the  men  off  us.  I've  no  opinion  o'  the 
men,  Miss  Grunn — I  don't  know  what  you  have.  And 
as  for  fretting  and  stewing  about  what  they'll  think  of 
you  from  morning  till  night,  and  making  your  life  un- 
easy about  what  they're  doing  when  they're  out  o' 
your  sight — as  I  tell  Nancy,  it's  a  folly  no  woman  need 
be  guilty  of,  if  she's  got  a  good  father  and  a  good 
home :  let  her  leave  it  to  them  as  have  got  no  fortin,  and 


138  SILAS  MARNER. 

can't  help  themselves.  As  I  say,  Mr.  Have-your-own- 
way  is  the  best  husband,  and  the  only  one  I'd  ever 
promise  to  obey.  I  know  it  isn't  pleasant,  when  you've 
been  used  to  living  in  a  big  way,  and  managing  hogs- 
heads and  all  that,  to  go  and  put  your  nose  in  by 
somebody  else's  fireside,  or  to  sit  down  by  yourself  to 
a  scrag  or  a  knuckle ;  but,  thank  God !  my  father's  a 
sober  man  and  likely  to  live ;  and  if  you've  got  a  man 
by  the  chimney-corner,  it  doesn't  matter  if  he's  child- 
ish— the  business  needn't  be  broke  up." 

The  delicate  process  of  getting  her  narrow  gown 
over  her  head  without  injury  to  her  smooth  curls, 
obliged  Miss  Priscilla  to  pause  in  this  rapid  survey  of 
life,  and  Mrs.  Osgood  seized  the  opportunity  of  rising 
and  saying — 

"  Well,  niece,  you'll  follow  us.  The  Miss  Gunns 
will  like  to  go  down." 

"  Sister,"  said  Nancy,  when  they  were  alone,  "you've 
offended  the  Miss  Gunns,  I'm  sure." 

"What  have  I  done,  child?"  said  Priscilla,  in  some 
alarm. 

"Why,  you  asked  them  if  they  minded  about  being 
ugly — you're  so  very  blunt." 

"  Law,  did  I  ?  Well,  it  popped  out :  it's  a  mercy  I 
said  no  more,  for  I'm  a  bad  un  to  live  with  folks  when 
they  don't  like  the  truth.  But  as  for  being  ugly,  look 
at  me,  child,  in  this  silver-coloured  silk — I  told  you 
how  it  'ud  be — I  look  as  yallow  as  a  daffadill.  Any- 
body 'ud  say  you  wanted  to  make  a  mawkin  of 
me." 

"  No,  Priscy,  don't  say  so.  I  begged  and  prayed 
of  you  not  to  let  us  have  this  silk  if  you'd  like  another 


SILAS  MAENEE.  139 

better.  I  was  willing  to  have  your  choice,  you  know 
I  was,"  said  Nancy,  in  anxious  self- vindication. 

"  Nonsense,  child,  you  know  you  had  set  your  heart 
on  this;  and  reason  good,  for  you're  the  colour  o'  cream. 
It  'ud  be  fine  doings  for  you  to  dress  yourself  to  suit 
my  skin.  What  I  find  fault  with,  is  that  notion  o' 
yours  as  I  must  dress  myself  just  like  you.  But  you 
do  as  you  like  with  me — you  always  did,  from  when 
first  you  begun  to  walk.  If  you  wanted  to  go  the 
field's  length,  the  field's  length  you'd  go ;  and  there 
was  no  whipping  you,  for  you  looked  as  prim  and  in- 
nicent  as  a  daisy  all  the  while." 

"  Priscy,"  said  Nancy,  gently,  as  she  fastened  a  coral 
necklace,  exactly  like  her  own,  round  Priscilla's  neck, 
which  was  very  far  from  being  like  her  own,  "I'm 
sure  I'm  willing  to  give  way  as  far  as  is  right,  but  who 
shouldn't  dress  alike  if  it  isn't  sisters  ?  Would  you 
have  us  go  about  looking  as  if  we  were  no  kin  to  one 
another — us  that  have  got  no  mother  and  not  another 
sister  in  the  world  ?  I'd  do  what  was  right,  if  I  dress- 
ed in  a  gown  dyed  with  cheese-colouring;  and  I'd 
rather  you'd  choose,  and  let  me  wear  what  pleases 
you." 

"  There  you  go  again !  You'd  come  round  to  the 
same  thing  if  one  talked  to  you  from  Saturday  night 
till  Saturday  morning.  It'll  be  fine  fun  to  see  how 
you'll  master  your  husband  and  never  raise  your  voice 
above  the  singing  o'  the  kettle  all  the  while.  I  like 
to  see  the  men  mastered !" 

"Don't  talk  so,  Priscy,"  said  Nancy,  blushing.  "You 
know  I  don't  mean  ever  to  be  married." 

"0,  you  never  mean  a  fiddlestick's  end!"  said  Pris- 


140  SILAS  MARNER. 

cilia,  as  she  arranged  her  discarded  dress,  and  closed 
her  bandbox.  "  Who  shall  /have  to  work  for  when 
father's  gone,  if  yon  are  to  go  and  take  notions  in  your 
head  and  be  an  old  maid,  because  some  folks  are  no 
better  than  they  should  be?  I  haven't  a  bit  o'  patience 
with  you — sitting  on  an  addled  egg  for  ever,  as  if  there 
was  never  a  fresh  un  in  the  world.  One  old  maid's 
enough  out  o'  two  sisters ;  and  I  shall  do  credit  to  a 
single  life,  for  God  A'mighty  meant  me  for  it.  Come, 
we  can  go  down  now.  I'm  as  ready  as  a  mawkin  can 
be — there's  nothing  awanting  to  frighten  the  crows, 
now  I've  got  my  ear-droppers  in." 

As  the  two  Miss  Lammeters  walked  into  the  large 
parlour  together,  any  one  who  did  not  know  the  char- 
acter of  both,  might  certainly  have  supposed  that  the 
reason  why  the  square-shouldered,  clumsy,  high-fea- 
tured Priscilla  wore  a  dress  the  facsimile  of  her  pretty 
sister's,  was  either  the  mistaken  vanity  of  the  one,  or 
the  malicious  contrivance  of  the  other  in  order  to  set 
off  her  own  rare  beauty.  But  the  good-natured  self- 
forgetful  cheeriness  and  common-sense  of  Priscilla 
would  soon  have  dissipated  the  one  suspicion;  and 
the  modest  calm  of  Nancy's  speech  and  manners  told 
clearly  of  a  mind  free  from  all  disavowed  devices. 

Places  of  honour  had  been  kept  for  the  Miss  Lam- 
meters near  the  head  of  the  principal  tea-table  in  the 
wainscoted  parlour,  now  looking  fresh  and  pleasant 
with  handsome  branches  of  holly,  yew,  and  laurel, 
from  the  abundant  growths  of  the  old  garden ;  and 
Nancy  felt  an  inward  flutter,  that  no  firmness  of  pur- 
pose could  prevent,  when  she  saw  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass 
advancing  to  lead  her  to  a  seat  between  himself  and 


SILAS    MAKNEK.  141 

Mr.  Crackenthorp,  while  Priscilla  was  called  to  the 
opposite  side  between  her  father  and  the  Squire.  It 
certainly  did  make  some  difference  to  Nancy  that  the 
lover  she  had  given  up  was  the  young  man  of  quite 
the  highest  consequence  in  the  parish — at  home  in  a 
venerable  and  unique  parlour,  which  was  the  extrem- 
ity of  grandeur  in  her  experience,  a  parlour  where 
she  might  one  day  have  been  mistress,  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  was  spoken  of  as  "Madam  Cass," 
the  Squire's  wife.  These  circumstances  exalted  her 
inward  drama  in  her  own  eyes,  and  deepened  the  em- 
phasis with  which  she  declared  to  herself  that  not  the 
most  dazzling  rank  should  induce  her  to  marry  a 
man  whose  conduct  showed  him  careless  of  his  char- 
acter, but  that,  "love  once,  love  always,"  was  the 
motto  of  a  true  and  pure  woman,  and  no  man  should 
ever  have  any  right  over  her  which  would  be  a  call 
on  her  to  destroy  the  dried  flowers  that  she  treasured, 
and  always  would  treasure,  for  Godfrey  Cass's  sake. 
And  Nancy  was  capable  of  keeping  her  word  to  her- 
self under  very  trying  conditions.  Nothing  but  a 
becoming  blush  betrayed  the  moving  thoughts  that 
urged  themselves  upon  her  as  she  accepted  the  seat 
next  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp ;  for  she  was  so  instinctively 
neat  and  adroit  in  all  her  actions,  and  her  pretty  lips 
met  each  other  with  such  quiet  firmness,  that  it  would 
have  been  difficult  for  her  to  appear  agitated. 

It  was  not  the  rector's  practice  to  let  a  charming 
blush  pass  without  an  appropriate  compliment.  He 
was  not  in  the  least  lofty  or  aristocratic,  but  simply 
a  merry-eyed,  small-featured,  grey -haired  man,  with 
his  chin  propped  by  an  ample,  many-creased  white 


142  SILAS  MARKER. 

neckcloth,  which  seemed  to  predominate  over  every 
point  in  his  person,  and  somehow  to  impress  its  pe- 
culiar character  on  his  remarks ;  so  that  to  have  con- 
sidered his  amenities  apart  from  his  cravat,  would 
have  been  a  severe,  and  perhaps  a  dangerous,  effort 
of  abstraction. 

"  Ha,  Miss  Nancy,"  he  said,  turning  his  head  with- 
in his  cravat,  and  smiling  down  pleasantly  upon  her, 
11  when  anybody  pretends  this  has  been  a  severe  win- 
ter, I  shall  tell  them  I  saw  the  roses  blooming  on 
New  Year's  Eve — eh,  Godfrey,  what  do  you  say  ?" 

Godfrey  made  no  reply,  and  avoided  looking  at 
Nancy  very  markedly ;  for  though  these  compliment- 
ary personalities  were  held  to  be  in  excellent  taste  in 
old-fashioned  Eaveloes  society,  reverent  love  has  a 
politeness  of  its  own  which  it  teaches  to  men  other- 
wise of  small  schooling.  But  the  Squire  was  rather 
impatient  at  Godfrey's  showing  himself  a  dull  spark 
in  this  way.  By  this  advanced  hour  of  the  day,  the 
Squire  was  always  in  higher  spirits  than  we  have  seen 
him  in  at  the  breakfast- table,  and  felt  it  quite  pleasant 
to  fulfil  the  hereditary  duty  of  being  noisily  jovial 
and  patronising :  the  large  silver  snuff-box  was  in  act- 
ive service,  and  was  offered  without  fail  to  all  neigh- 
bours from  time  to  time,  however  often  they  might 
have  declined  the  favour.  At  present  the  Squire  had 
only  given  an  express  welcome  to  the  heads  of  fami- 
lies as  they  appeared ;  but  always  as  the  evening  deep- 
ened, his  hospitality  rayed  out  more  widely,  till  he 
had  tapped  the  youngest  guests  on  the  back  and 
shown  a  peculiar  fondness  for  their  presence,  in  the 
full  belief  that  they  must  feel  their  lives  made  happy 


SILAS   MAKNEE.  143 

by  their  belonging  to  a  parish  where  there  was  such 
a  hearty  man  as  Squire  Cass  to  invite  them  and  wish 
them  well.  Even  in  this  early  stage  of  the  jovial 
mood,  it  was  natural  that  he  should  wish  to  supply 
his  son's  deficiencies  by  looking  and  speaking  for  him. 

"Ay,  ay,"  he  began,  offering  his  snuff-box  to  Mr. 
Lammeter,  who  for  the  second  time  bowed  his  head  and 
waved  his  hand  in  stiff  rejection  of  the  offer,  "  us  old 
fellows  may  wish  ourselves  young  to-night,  when  we 
see  the  mistletoe-bough  in  the  White  Parlour.  It's 
true,  most  things  are  gone  back'ard  in  these  last  thir- 
ty years — the  country's  going  down  since  the  old  king 
fell  ill.  But  when  I  look  at  Miss  Nancy  here,  I  be- 
gin to  think  the  lasses  keep  up  their  quality ; — ding 
me  if  I  remember  a  sample  to  match  her,  not  when  I 
was  a  fine  young  fellow,  and  thought  a  deal  about  my 
pigtail.  No  offence  to  you,  madam,"  he  added,  bend- 
ing to  Mrs. Crackenthorp,  who  sat  by  him,  "I  didn't 
know  you  when  you  were  as  young  as  Miss  Nancy 
here." 

Mrs.  Crackenthorp — a  small  blinking  woman,  who 
fidgeted  incessantly  with  her  lace,  ribbons,  and  gold 
chain,  turning  her  head  about  and  making  subdued 
noises,  very  much  like  a  guinea-pig,  that  twitches  its 
nose  and  soliloquises  in  all  company  indiscriminately 
— now  blinked  and  fidgeted  towards  the  Squire,  and 
said,  "0  no — no  offence." 

This  emphatic  compliment  of  the  Squire's  to  Nancy 
was  felt  by  others  besides  Godfrey  to  have  a  diplo- 
matic significance ;  and  her  father  gave  a  slight  addi- 
tional erectness  to  his  back,  as  he  looked  across  the 
table  at  her  with  complacent  gravity.    That  grave 


144  SILAS  MARNER. 

and  orderly  senior  was  not  going  to  bate  a  jot  of  his 
dignity  by  seeming  elated  at  the  notion  of  a  match 
between  his  family  and  the  Squire's :  he  was  gratified 
by  any  honour  paid  to  his  daughter ;  but  he  must  see 
an  alteration  in  several  ways  before  his  consent  would 
be  vouchsafed.  His  spare  but  healthy  person,  and 
high-featured  firm  face,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  never 
been  flushed  by  excess,  was  in  strong  contrast,  not 
only  with  the  Squire's,  but  with  the  appearance  of  the 
Eaveloe  farmers  generally — in  accordance  with  a  fa- 
vourite saying  of  his  own,  that  "breed  was  stronger 
than  pasture." 

"Miss  Nancy's  wonderful  like  what  her  mother 
was,  though ;  isn't  she,  Kimble  ?"  said  the  stout  lady 
of  that  name,  looking  round  for  her  husband. 

■But  Doctor  Kimble  (county  apothecaries  in  old 
days  enjoyed  that  title  without  authority  of  diploma), 
being  a  thin  and  agile  man,  was  flitting  about  the 
room  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  making  himself 
agreeable  to  his  feminine  patients,  with  medical  im- 
partiality, and  being  welcomed  everywhere  as  a  doc- 
tor by  hereditary  right — not  one  of  those  miserable 
apothecaries  who  canvass  for  practice  in  strange  neigh- 
bourhoods, and  spend  all  their  income  in  starving  their 
one  horse,  but  a  man  of  substance,  able  to  keep  an  ex- 
travagant table  like  the  best  of  his  patients.  Time 
out  of  mind  the  Eaveloe  doctor  had  been  a  Kimble ; 
Kimble  was  inherently  a  doctor's  name;  and  it  was 
difficult  to  contemplate  firmly  the  melancholy  fact  that 
the  actual  Kimble  had  no  son,  so  that  his  practice 
might  one  day  be  handed  over  to  a  successor,  with 
the  incongruous  name  of  Taylor  or  Johnson.     But  in 


SILAS  MARNER.  145 

that  case  the  wiser  people  in  Eaveloe  would  employ 
Dr.  Blick  of  Flitton — as  less  unnatural. 

"Did  you  speak  to  me,  my  dear?"  said  the  authen- 
tic doctor,  coming  quickly  to  his  wife's  side ;  but,  as 
if  foreseeing  that  she  would  be  too  much  out  of  breath 
to  repeat  her  remark,  he  went  on  immediately — "  Ha, 
Miss  Priscilla,  the  sight  of  you  revives  the  taste  of 
that  super-excellent  pork-pie.  I  hope  the  batch  isn't 
near  an  end." 

"Yes,  indeed,  it  is,  doctor,"  said  Priscilla;  "but 
I'll  answer  for  it  the  next  shall  be  as  good.  My  pork- 
pies  don't  turn  out  well  by  chance." 

"Not  as  your  doctoring  does,  eh,  Kimble? — be- 
cause folks  forget  to  take  your  physic,  eh?"  said  the 
Squire,  who  regarded  physic  and  doctors  as  many 
loyal  churchmen  regard  the  church  and  the  clergy — 
tasting  a  joke  against  them  when  he  was  in  health, 
but  impatiently  eager  for  their  aid  when  anything  was 
the  matter  with  him.  He  tapped  his  box,  and  looked 
round  with  a  triumphant  laugh. 

"  Ah,  she  has  a  quick  wit,  my  friend  Priscilla  has," 
said  the  doctor,  choosing  to  attribute  the  epigram  to 
the  lady  rather  than  allow  a  brother-in-law  that  ad- 
vantage over  him.  "She  saves  a  little  pepper  to 
sprinkle  over  her  talk — that's  the  reason  why  she 
never  puts  too  much  into  her  pies.  There's  my  wife, 
now,  she  never  has  an  answer  at  her  tongue's  end ; 
but  if  I  offend  her,  she's  sure  to  scarify  my  throat  with 
black  pepper  the  next  day,  or  else  give  me  the  colic 
with  watery  greens.  That's  an  awful  tit-for-tat." 
Here  the  vivacious  doctor  made  a  pathetic  grimace. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  like?"  said  Mrs.  Kimble, 


146  SILAS   MARNER. 

laughing  above  her  double  chin  with  much  good-hu- 
mour, aside  to  Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  who  blinked  and 
nodded,  and  seemed  to  intend  a  smile,  which,  by  the 
correlation  of  forces,  went  off  in  small  twitchings  and 
noises. 

"I  suppose  that's  the  sort  of  tit-for-tat  adopted  in 
your  profession,  Kimble,  if  you've  a  grudge  against  a 
patient,"  said  the  rector. 

"Never  do  have  a  grudge  against  our  patients," 
said  Mr.  Kimble,  "  except  when  they  leave  us :  and 
then,  you  see,  we  haven't  the  chance  of  prescribing 
for  'em.  Ha,  Miss  Nancy,"  he  continued,  suddenly 
skipping  to  Nancy's  side,  "you  won't  forget  your 
promise  ?     You're  to  save  a  dance  for  me,  you  know/' 

"Come,  come,  Kimble,  don't  you  be  too  for'ard," 
said  the  Squire.  "Give  the  young  uns  fair  play. 
There's  my  son  Godfrey  '11  be  wanting  to  have  a 
round  with  you  if  you  run  off  with  Miss  Nancy. 
He's  bespoke  her  for  the  first  dance,  I'll  be  bound. 
Eh,  sir !  what  do  you  say  ?"  he  continued,  throwing 
himself  backward,  and  looking  at  Godfrey.  "Haven't 
you  asked  Miss  Nancy  to  open  the  dance  with  you  ?" 

Godfrey,  sorely  uncomfortable  under  this  signifi- 
cant insistance  about  Nancy,  and  afraid  to  think 
where  it  would  end  by  the  time  his  father  had  set  his 
usual  hospitable  example  of  drinking  before  and  after 
supper,  saw  no  course  open  but  to  turn  to  Nancy  and 
say,  with  as  little  awkwardness  as  possible — 

"  No ;  I've  not  asked  her  yet,  but  I  hope  she'll  con- 
sent— if  somebody  else  hasn't  been  before  me." 

"  No,  I've  not  engaged  myself,"  said  Nancy,  quiet- 
ly, though  blushingly.     (If  Mr.  Godfrey  founded  any 


SILAS  MARNER.  147 

hopes  on  her  consenting  to  dance  with  him,  he  would 
soon  be  undeceived ;  but  there  was  no  need  for  her  to 
be  uncivil.) 

"Then  I  hope  you've  no  objections  to  dancing 
with  me,"  said  Godfrey,  beginning  to  lose  the  sense 
that  there  was  any  thing  uncomfortable  in  this  ar- 
rangement. 

"No,  no  objections,"  said  Nancy,  in  a  cold  tone. 

"Ah,  well,  you're  a  lucky  fellow,  Godfrey,"  said 
uncle  Kimble;  "but  you're  my  godson,  so  I  wont 
stand  in  your  way.  Else  I'm  not  so  very  old,  eh,  my 
dear  ?"  he  went  on,  skipping  to  his  wife's  side  again. 
"You  wouldn't  mind  my  having  a  second  after  you 
were  gone — not  if  I  cried  a  good  deal  first?" 

"  Come,  come,  take  a  cup  o'  tea  and  stop  your 
tongue,  do,"  said  good-humoured  Mrs.  Kimble,  feeling 
some  pride  in  a  husband  who  must  be  regarded  as  so 
clever  and  amusing  by  the  company  generally.  If  he 
had  only  not  been  irritable  at  cards ! 

While  safe,  well-tested  personalities  were  enlivening 
the  tea  in  this  way,  the  sound  of  the  fiddle  approach- 
ing within  a  distance  at  which  it  could  be  heard  dis- 
tinctly, made  the  young  people  look  at  each  other 
with  sympathetic  impatience  for  the  end  of  the  meal. 

"Why,  there's  Solomon  in  the  hall,"  said  the  Squire, 
"and  playing  my  fav'rite  tune,  I  believe — '  The  flax- 
en-headed ploughboy' — he's  for  giving  us  a  hint  as  we 
aren't  enough  in  a  hurry  to  hear  him  play.  Bob,"  he 
called  out  to  his  third  long-legged  son,  who  was  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  "  open  the  door,  and  tell 
Solomon  to  come  in.     He  shall  give  us  a  tune  here." 

Bob  obeyed,  and  Solomon  walked  in,  fiddling  as  he 


148  SILAS  MARNER. 

walked,  for  he  would  on  no  account  break  off  in  the 
middle  of  a  tune. 

"  Here,  Solomon,"  said  the  Squire,  with  loud  pa- 
tronage. "  Bound  here,  my  man.  Ah,  I  knew  it 
was  f  The  flaxen-headed  ploughboy :'  there's  no  finer 
tune." 

Solomon  Macey,  a  small  hale  old  man  with  an 
abundant  crop  of  long  white  hair  reaching  nearly  to 
his  shoulders,  advanced  to  the  indicated  spot,  bowing 
reverently  while  he  fiddled,  as  much  as  to  say  that  he 
respected  the  company,  though  he  respected  the  key- 
note more.  As  soon  as  he  had  repeated  the  tune  and 
lowered  his  fiddle,  he  bowed  again  to  the  Squire  and 
the  rector,  and  said,  "  I  hope  I  see  your  honour  and 
your  reverence  well,  and  wishing  you  health  and  long 
life  and  a  happy  New  Year.  And  wishing  the  same 
to  you,  Mr.  Lammeter,  sir ;  and  to  the  other  gentle- 
men, and  the  madams,  and  the  young  lasses." 

As  Solomon  uttered  the  last  words,  he  bowed  in  all 
directions  solicitously,  lest  he  should  be  wanting  in 
due  respect.  But  thereupon  he  immediately  began  to 
prelude,  and  fell  into  the  tune  which  he  knew  would 
be  taken  as  a  special  compliment  by  Mr.  Lammeter. 

"  Thank  ye,  Solomon,  thank  ye,"  said  Mr.  Lam- 
meter, when  the  fiddle  paused  again.  "  That's  '  Over 
the  hills  and  far  away,'  that  is.  My  father  used  to 
say  to  me,  whenever  we  heard  that  tune,  { Ah,  lad,  2" 
come  from  over  the  hills  and  far  away.'  There's  a 
many  tunes  I  don't  make  head  or  tail  of;  but  that 
speaks  to  me  like  the  blackbird's  whistle.  I  suppose 
it's  the  name :  there's  a  deal  in  the  name  of  a  tune." 

But  Solomon  was   already  impatient  to  prelude 


SILAS  MAKNER.  149 

again,  and  presently  broke  with  much  spirit  into  "  Sir 
Koger  de  Coverley,"  at  which  there  was  a  sound  of 
chairs  pushed  back,  and  laughing  voices. 

"Ay,  ay,  Solomon,  we  know  what  that  means," 
said  the  Squire,  rising.  "It's  time  to  begin  the  dance, 
eh  ?    Lead  the  way,  then,  and  we'll  all  follow  you." 

So  Solomon,  holding  his  white  head  on  one  side, 
and  playing  vigorously,  marched  forward  at  the  head 
of  the  gay  procession  into  the  White  Parlour,  where 
the  mistletoe-bough  was  hung,  and  multitudinous  tal- 
low candles  made  rather  a  brilliant  effect,  gleaming 
from  among  the  berried  holly -boughs,  and  reflected 
in  the  old-fashioned  oval  mirrors  fastened  in  the  pan- 
els of  the  white  wainscot.  A  quaint  procession !  Old 
Solomon,  in  his  seedy  clothes  and  long  white  locks, 
seemed  to  be  luring  that  decent  company  by  the  mag- 
ic scream  of  his  riddle — luring  discreet  matrons  in  tur- 
ban-shaped caps,  nay,  Mrs.  Crackenthorp  herself,  the 
summit  of  whose  perpendicular  feather  was  on  a  level 
with  the  Squire's  shoulder — luring  fair  lasses  compla- 
cently conscious  of  very  short  waists  and  skirts  blame- 
less of  front-folds — burly  fathers,  in  large  variegated 
waistcoats,  and  ruddy  sons,  for  the  most  part  shy  and 
sheepish,  in  short  nether  garments  and  very  long  coat- 
tails. 

Already,  Mr.  Macey  and  a  few  other  privileged  vil- 
lagers, who  were  allowed  to  be  spectators  on  these 
great  occasions,  were  seated  on  benches  placed  for  them 
near  the  door ;  and  great  was  the  admiration  and  sat- 
isfaction in  that  quarter  when  the  couples  had  formed 
themselves  for  the  dance,  and  the  Squire  led  off  with 
Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  joining  hands  with  the  rector  and 


150  SILAS  MARNER. 

Mrs.  Osgood.  That  was  as  it  should  be — that  was  what 
everybody  had  been  used  to — and  the  charter  of  Kav- 
eloe  seemed  to  be  renewed  by  the  ceremony.  It  was 
not  thought  of  as  an  unbecoming  levity  for  the  old 
and  middle-aged  people  to  dance  a  little  before  sitting 
down  to  cards,  but  rather  as  part  of  their  social  duties. 
For  what  were  these  if  not  to  be  merry  at  appropriate 
times,  interchanging  visits  and  poultry  with  due  fre- 
quency, paying  each  other  old-established  compliments 
in  sound  traditional  phrases,  passing  well-tried  person- 
al jokes,  urging  your  guests  to  eat  and  drink  too  much 
out  of  hospitality,  and  eating  and  drinking  too  much 
in  your  neighbour's  house  to  show  that  you  liked  your 
cheer  ?  And  the  parson  naturally  set  an  example  in 
these  social  duties.  For  it  would  not  have  been  pos- 
sible for  the  Kaveloe  mind,  without  a  peculiar  revela- 
tion, to  know  that  a  clergyman  should  be  a  pale-faced 
memento  of  solemnities,  instead  of  a  reasonably  faulty 
man,  whose  exclusive  authority  to  read  prayers  and 
preach,  to  christen,  marry,  and  bury  you,  necessarily 
co-existed  with  the  right  to  sell  you  the  ground  to  be 
buried  in,  and  to  take  tithe  in  kind ;  on  which  last 
point,  of  course,  there  was  a  little  grumbling,  but  not 
to  the  extent  of  irreligion — not  beyond  the  grumbling 
at  the  rain,  which  was  by  no  means  accompanied  with 
a  spirit  of  impious  defiance,  but  with  a  desire  that  the 
prayer  for  fine  weather  might  be  read  forthwith. 

There  was  no  reason,  then,  why  the  rector's  dancing 
should  not  be  received  as  part  of  the  fitness  of  things 
quite  as  much  as  the  Squire's,  or  why,  on  the  other 
hand,  Mr.  Macey's  official  respect  should  restrain  him 
from  subjecting  the  parson's  performance  to  that  crit- 


SILAS  MARNER.  151 

icism  with  which  minds  of  extraordinary  acuteness 
must  necessarily  contemplate  the  doings  of  their  falli- 
ble fellow-men. 

"  The  Squire's  pretty  springe,  considering  his  weight," 
said  Mr.  Macey,  "  and  he  stamps  uncommon  well.  But 
Mr.  Lammeter  beats  'em  all  for  shapes :  you  see,  he 
holds  his  head  like  a  sodger,  and  he  isn't  so  cushiony 
as  most  o'  the  oldish  gentlefolks — they  run  fat  in  gen- 
eral; and  he's  got  a  fine  leg.  The  parson's  nimble 
enough,  but  he  hasn't  got  much  of  a  leg :  it's  a  bit  too 
thick  down'ard,  and  his  knees  might  be  a  bit  nearer 
wi'out  damage ;  but  he  might  do  worse,  he  might  do 
worse.  Though  he  hasn't  that  grand  way  o'  waving 
his  hand  as  the  Squire  has." 

"Talk  o'  nimbleness,  look  at  Mrs.  Osgood,"  said  Ben 
Winthrop,  who  was  holding  his  son  Aaron  between 
his  knees.  "  She  trips  along  with  her  little  steps,  so 
as  nobody  can  see  how  she  goes — it's  like  as  if  she 
had  little  wheels  to  her  feet.  She  doesn't  look  a  day 
older  nor  last  year:  she's  the  finest-made  woman  as 
is,  let  the  next  be  where  she  will." 

"  I  don't  heed  how  the  women  are  made,"  said  Mr. 
Macey,  with  some  contempt.  "They  wear  nayther 
coat  nor  breeches :  you  can't  make  much  out  o'  their 
shapes." 

"  Fayder,"  said  Aaron,  whose  feet  were  busy  beat- 
ing out  the  tune,  "how  does  that  big  cock's-feather 
stick  in  Mrs.  Crackenthorp's  yead  ?  Is  there  a  little 
hole  for  it,  like  in  my  shuttlecock  ?" 

"  Hush,  lad,  hush ;  that's  the  way  the  ladies  dress 
theirselves,  that  is,"  said  the  father,  adding,  however, 
in  an  under-tone  to  Mr.  Macey,  "  It  does  make  her 


152  SILAS   MARNER. 

look  funny,  though — partly  like  a  short-necked  bottle 
wi'  a  long  quill  in  it.  Hey,  by  jingo,  there's  the  young 
Squire  leading  off  now,  wi'  Miss  Nancy  for  partners. 
There's  a  lass  for  you ! — like  a  pink-and-white  posy — 
there's  nobody  'ud  think  as  anybody  could  be  so  prit- 
ty.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she's  Madam  Cass  some 
day,  arter  all — and  nobody  more  rightfuller,  for  they'd 
make  a  fine  match.  You  can  find  nothing  against 
Master  Godfrey's  shapes,  Macey,  J'll  bet  a  penny." 

Mr.  Macey  screwed  up  his  mouth,  leaned  his  head 
further  on  one  side,  and  twirled  his  thumbs  with  a 
presto  movement  as  his  eyes  followed  Godfrey  up  the 
dance.     At  last  he  summed  up  his  opinion. 

"  Pretty  well  down'ard,  but  a  bit  too  round  i'  the 
shoulder-blades.  And  as  for  them  coats  as  he  gets 
from  the  Flitton  tailor,  they're  a  poor  cut  to  pay 
double  money  for." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Macey,  you  and  me  arc  two  old  folks," 
said  Ben,  slightly  indignant  at  this  carping.  "  "When 
I've  got  a  pot  o'  good  ale,  I  like  to  swaller  it,  and  do 
my  inside  good,  i'stead  o'  smelling  and  staring  at  it  to 
see  if  I  can't  find  faut  wi'  the  brewing.  I  should  like 
you  to  pick  me  out  a  finer-limbed  young  fellow  nor 
Master  Godfrey — one  as  'ud  knock  you  down  easier, 
or  's  more  pleasanter-looksed  when  he's  piert  and 
merry." 

"  Tchuh !"  said  Mr.  Macey,  provoked  to  increased 
severity,  "he  isn't  come  to  his  right  colour  yet:  he's 
partly  like  a  slack-baked  pie.  And  I  doubt  he's  got 
a  soft  place  in  his  head,  else  why  should  he  be  turned 
round  the  finger  by  that  offal  Dunsey  as  nobody's  seen 
o'  late,  and  let  him  kill  that  fine  hunting  boss  as  was 


SILAS  MARNER.  153 

the  talk  o'  the  country  ?  And  one  while  he  was  al- 
lays after  Miss  Nancy,  and  then  it  all  went  off  again, 
like  a  smell  o'  hot  porridge,  as  I  may  say.  That 
wasn't  my  way,  when  1"  went  a-coorting." 

11  Ah,  but  mayhap  Miss  Nancy  hung  off,  like,  and 
your  lass  didn't,"  said  Ben. 

n  I  should  say  she  didn't,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  signifi- 
cantly. "  Before  I  said  '  sniff,'  I  took  care  to  know  as 
she'd  say  '  snaff,'  and  pretty  quick  too.  I  wasn't  a-go- 
ing to  open  my  mouth,  like  a  dog  at  a  fly,  and  snap  it 
to  again,  wi'  nothing  to  swaller." 

"Well,  I  think  Miss  Nancy's  a-coming  round  again," 
said  Ben,  "for  Master  Godfrey  doesn't  look  so  down- 
hearted to-night.  And  I  see  he's  for  taking  her  away 
to  sit  down,  now  they're  at  the  end  o'  the  dance :  that 
looks  like  sweethearting,  that  does." 

The  reason  why  Godfrey  and  Nancy  had  left  the 
dance  was  not  so  tender  as  Ben  imagined.  In  the 
close  press  of  couples  a  slight  accident  had  happened 
to  Nancy's  dress,  which,  while  it  was  short  enough  to 
show  her  neat  ankle  in  front,  was  long  enough  behind 
to  be  caught  under  the  stately  stamp  of  the  Squire's 
foot,  so  as  to  rend  certain  stitches  at  the  waist,  and 
cause  much  sisterly  agitation  in  Priscilla's  mind,  as 
well  *as  serious  concern  in  Nancy's.  One's  thoughts 
may  be  much  occupied  with  love-struggles,  but  hard- 
ly so  as  to  be  insensible  to  a  disorder  in  the  general 
framework  of  things.  Nancy  had  no  sooner  com- 
pleted her  duty  in  the  figure  they  were  dancing  than 
she  said  to  Godfrey,  with  a  deep  blush,  that  she  must 
go  and  sit  down  till  Priscilla  could  come  to  her ;  for 
the  sisters  had  already  exchanged  a  short  whisper  and 

G2 


154  SILAS  MARNER. 

an  open-eyed  glance  full  of  meaning.  No  reason  less 
urgent  than  this  could  have  prevailed  on  Nancy  to 
give  Godfrey  this  opportunity  of  sitting  apart  with 
her.  As  for  Godfrey,  he  was  feeling  so  happy  and 
oblivious  under  the  long  charm  of  the  country-dance 
with  Nancy,  that  he  got  rather  bold  on  the  strength  of 
her  confusion,  and  was  capable  of  leading  her  straight 
away,  without  leave  asked,  into  the  adjoining  small 
parlour,  where  the  card-tables  were  set. 

"  0  no,  thank  you,"  said  Nancy,  coldly,  as  soon  as 
she  perceived  where  he  was  going,  "  not  in  there.  I'll 
wait  here  till  Priscilla's  ready  to  come  to  me.  I'm 
sorry  to  bring  you  out  of  the  dance  and  make  myself 
troublesome." 

"  Why,  you'll  be  more  comfortable  here  by  your- 
self," said  the  artful  Godfrey ;  "  I'll  leave  you  here 
till  your  sister  can  come."  He  spoke  in  an  indifferent 
tone. 

That  was  an  agreeable  proposition,  and  just  what 
Nancy  desired ;  why,  then,  was  she  a  little  hurt  that 
Mr.  Godfrey  should  make  it  ?  They  entered,  and  she 
seated  herself  on  a  chair  against  one  of  the  card-tables, 
as  the  stiffest  and  most  unapproachable  position  she 
could  choose. 

" Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said  immediately.  "I needn't 
give  you  any  more  trouble.  I'm  sorry  you've  had 
such  an  unlucky  partner." 

"That's  very  ill-natured  of  you,"  said  Godfrey, 
standing  by  her  without  any  sign  of  intended  depart- 
ure, "  to  be  sorry  you've  danced  with  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,  I  don't  mean  to  say  what's  ill-natured 
at  all,"  said  Nancy,  looking  distractingly  prim  and 


SILAS  MARNER.  155 

pretty.  "  When  gentlemen  have  so  many  pleasures, 
one  dance  can  make  but  very  little." 

"  You  know  that  isn't  true.  You  know  one  dance 
with  you  matters  more  to  me  than  all  the  other  pleas- 
ures in  the  world." 

It  was  a  long,  long  while  since  Godfrey  had  said 
any  thing  so  direct  as  that,  and  Nancy  was  startled. 
But  her  instinctive  dignity  and  repugnance  to  any 
show  of  emotion  made  her  sit  perfectly  still,  and  only 
throw  a  little  more  decision  into  her  voice  as  she  said — 

"  No,  indeed,  Mr.  Godfrey,  that's  not  known  to  me, 
and  I  have  very  good  reasons  for  thinking  different. 
But  if  it's  true,  I  don't  wish  to  hear  it." 

"  Would  you  never  forgive  me,  then,  Nancy — nev- 
er think  well  of  me,  let  what  would  happen — would 
you  never  think  the  present  made  amends  for  the 
past?  Not  if  I  turned  a  good  fellow,  and  gave  up  ev- 
erything you  didn't  like  ?" 

Godfrey  was  half  conscious  that  this  sudden  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  to  Nancy  alone  had  driven  him  be- 
side himself;  but  blind  feeling  had  got  the  mastery 
of  his  tongue.  Nancy  really  felt  much  agitated  by 
the  possibility  Godfrey's  words  suggested,  but  this 
very  pressure  of  emotion  that  she  was  in  danger  of 
rinding  too  strong  for  her,  roused  all  her  power  of 
self-command. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  see  a  good  change  in  anybody, 
Mr.  Godfrey,"  she  answered,  with  the  slightest  discern- 
ible difference  of  tone,  "but  it  'ud  be  better  if  no  change 
was  wanted." 

"You're  very  hard-hearted,  Nancy,"  said  Godfrey, 
pettishly.     "You  might  encourage  me  to  be  a  bet- 


156  SILAS  MAKNEK. 

ter  fellow.  I'm  very  miserable — but  you've  no  feel- 
ing.» 

"  I  think  those  have  the  least  feeling  that  act  wrong 
to  begin  with,"  said  Nancy,  sending  out  a  flash  in  spite 
of  herself.  Godfrey  was  delighted  with  that  little  flash, 
and  would  have  liked  to  go  on  and  make  her  quarrel 
with  him;  Nancy  was  so  exasperatingly  quiet  and 
firm.     She  was  not  indifferent  to  him  yet,  though — 

The  entrance  of  Priscilla,  bustling  forward  and  say- 
ing, "  Dear  heart  alive,  child,  let  us  look  at  this  gown," 
cut  off  Godfrey's  hopes  of  a  quarrel. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  go  now,"  he  said  to  Priscilla. 

"  It's  no  matter  to  me  whether  you  go  or  stay,"  said 
that  frank  lady,  searching  for  something  in  her  pocket, 
with  a  preoccupied  brow. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go?"  said  Godfrey,  looking  at 
Nancy,  who  was  now  standing  up  by  Priscilla's  order. 

"  As  you  like,"  said  Nancy,  trying  to  recover  all 
her  former  coldness,  and  looking  down  carefully  at  the 
hem  of  her  gown. 

"  Then  I  like  to  stay,"  said  Godfrey,  with  a  reckless 
determination  to  get  as  much  of  this  joy  as  he  could 
to-night,  and  think  nothing  of  the  morrow.. 


SILAS  MARKER.  157 


CHAPTER  XII. 

While  Godfrey  Cass  was  taking  draughts  of  for- 
getfulness  from  the  sweet  presence  of  Nancy,  willingly 
losing  all  sense  of  that  hidden  bond  which  at  other 
moments  galled  and  fretted  him  so  as  to  mingle  irrita- 
tion with  the  very  sunshine,  Godfrey's  wife  was  walk- 
ing with  slow  uncertain  steps  through  the  snow-cov- 
ered Raveloe  lanes,  carrying  her  child  in  her  arms. 

This  journey  on  New  Year's  Eve  was  a  premedi- 
tated act  of  vengeance  which  she  had  kept  in  her 
heart  ever  since  Godfrey,  in  a  fit  of  passion,  had  told 
her  he  would  sooner  die  than  acknowledge  her  as  his 
wife.  There  would  be  a  great  party  at  the  Red  House 
on  New  Year's  Eve,  she  knew :  her  husband  would 
be  smiling  and  smiled  upon,  hiding  Tier  existence  in 
the  darkest  corner  of  his  heart.  But  she  would  mar 
his  pleasure :  she  would  go  in  her  dingy  rags,  with 
her  faded  face,  once  as  handsome  as  the  best,  with  her 
little  child  that  had  its  father's  hair  and  eyes,  and  dis- 
close herself  to  the  Squire  as  his  eldest  son's  wife.  It 
is  seldom  that  the  miserable  can  help  regarding  their 
misery  as  a  wrong  inflicted  by  those  who  are  less  mis- 
erable. Molly  knew  that  the  cause  of  her  dingy  rags 
was  not  her  husband's  neglect,  but  the  demon  Opium 
to  whom  she  was  enslaved,  body  and  soul,  except  in 
the  lingering  mother's  tenderness  that  refused  to  give 
him  her  hungry  child.    She  knew  this  well;  and  yet, 


158  SILAS  MAKNEK. 

in  the  moments  of  wretched  unbenumbed  conscious- 
ness, the  sense  of  her  want  and  degradation  transform- 
ed itself  continually  into  bitterness  towards  Godfrey. 
He  was  well  off;  and  if  she  had  her  rights  she  would 
be  well  off  too.  The  belief  that  he  repented  his  mar- 
riage, and  suffered  from  it,  only  aggravated  her  vin- 
dictiveness.  Just  and  self-reproving  thoughts  do  not 
come  to  us  too  thickly,  even  in  the  purest  air,  and  with 
the  best  lessons  of  heaven  and  earth ;  how  should  those 
white-winged  delicate  messengers  make  their  way  to 
Molly's  poisoned  chamber,  inhabited  by  no  higher 
memories  than  those  of  a  bar-maid's  paradise  of  pink 
ribbons  and  gentlemen's  jokes? 

She  had  set  out  at  an  early  hour,  but  had  lingered 
on  the  road,  inclined  by  her  indolence  to  believe  that 
if  she  waited  under  a  warm  shed  the  snow  would  cease 
to  fall.  She  had  waited  longer  than  she  knew,  and 
now  that  she  found  herself  belated  in  the  snow-hidden 
ruggedness  of  the  long  lanes,  even  the  animation  of  a 
vindictive  purpose  could  not  keep  her  spirit  from 
failing.  It  was  seven  o'clock,  and  by  this  time  she 
was  not  very  far  from  Eaveloe,  but  she  was  not  famil- 
iar enough  with  those  monotonous  lanes  to  know  how 
near  she  was  to  her  journey's  end.  She  needed  com- 
fort, and  she  knew  but  one  comforter — the  familiar  de- 
mon in  her  bosom ;  but  she  hesitated  a  moment,  after 
drawing  out  the  black  remnant,  before  she  raised  it  to 
her  lips.  In  that  moment  the  mother's  love  pleaded 
for  painful  consciousness  rather  than  oblivion — plead- 
ed to  be  left  in  aching  weariness,  rather  than  to  have 
the  encircling  arms  benumbed  so  that  they  could  not 
feel  the  dear  burden.     In  another  moment  Molly  had 


SILAS  MAENER.  159 

flung  something  away,  but  it  was  not  the  black  rem- 
nant— it  was  an  empty  phial.  And  she  walked  on 
again  under  the  breaking  cloud,  from  which  there 
came  now  and  then  the  light  of  a  quickly- veiled  star, 
for  a  freezing  wind  had  sprung  up  since  the  snowing 
had  ceased.  But  she  walked  always  more  and  more 
drowsily,  and  clutched  more  and  more  automatically 
the  sleeping  child  at  her  bosom. 

Slowly  the  demon  was  working  his  will,  and  cold 
and  weariness  were  his  helpers.  Soon  she  felt  noth- 
ing but  a  supreme  immediate  longing  that  curtained 
off  all  futurity — the  longing  to  lie  down  and  sleep. 
She  had  arrived  at  a  spot  where  her  footsteps  were  no 
longer  checked  by  a  hedgerow,  and  she  had  wandered 
vaguely,  unable  to  distinguish  any  objects,  notwith- 
standing the  wide  whiteness  around  her,  and  the  grow- 
ing starlight.  She  sank  down  against  a  straggling 
furze  bush,  an  easy  pillow  enough ;  and  the  bed  of 
snow,  too,  was  soft.  She  did  not  feel  that  the  bed  was 
cold,  and  did  not  heed  whether  the  child  would  wake 
and  cry  for  her.  But  her  arms  did  not  yet  relax  their 
instinctive  clutch ;  and  the  little  one  slumbered  on  as 
gently  as  if  it  had  been  rocked  in  a  lace-trimmed 
cradle. 

But  the  complete  torpor  came  at  last :  the  fingers 
lost  their  tension,  the  arms  unbent;  then  the  little 
head  fell  away  from  the  bosom,  and  the  blue  eyes 
opened  wide  on  the  cold  starlight.  At  first  there  was 
a  little  peevish  cry  of  M  mammy,"  and  an  effort  to  re- 
gain the  pillowing  arm  and  bosom ;  but  mammy's  ear 
was  deaf,  and  the  pillow  seemed  to  be  slipping  away 
backward.     Suddenly,  as  the  child  rolled  downward 


160  SILAS  MARNER. 

on  its  mother's  knees,  all  wet  with  snow,  its  eyes  were 
caught  by  a  bright  glancing  light  on  the  white  ground, 
and,  with  the  ready  transition  of  infancy,  it  was  imme- 
diately absorbed  in  watching  the  bright  living  thing 
running  towards  it,  yet  never  arriving.  That  bright 
living  thing  must  be  caught;  and  in  an  instant  the 
child  had  slipped  on  all-fours,  and  held  out  one  little 
hand  to  catch  the  gleam.  But  the  gleam  would  not 
be  caught  in  that  way,  and  now  the  head  was  held  up 
to  see  where  the  cunning  gleam  came  from.  It  came 
from  a  very  bright  place ;  and  the  little  one,  rising  on 
its  legs,  toddled  through  the  snow,  the  old  grimy  shawl 
in  which  it  was  wrapped  trailing  behind  it,  and  the 
queer  little  bonnet  dangling  at  its  back — toddled  on  to 
the  open  door  of  Silas  Marner's  cottage,  and  right  up 
to  the  warm  hearth,  where  there  was  a  bright  fire  of 
logs  and  sticks,  which  had  thoroughly  warmed  the  old 
sack  (Silas's  greatcoat)  spread  out  on  the  bricks  to  dry. 
The  little  one,  accustomed  to  be  left  to  itself  for  long 
hours  without  notice  from  its  mother,  squatted  down 
on  the  sack,  and  spread  its  tiny  hands  towards  the 
blaze,  in  perfect  contentment,  gurgling  and  making 
many  inarticulate  communications  to  the  cheerful  fire, 
like  a  new-hatched  gosling  beginning  to  find  itself 
comfortable.  But  presently  the  warmth  had  a  lulling 
effect,  and  the  little  golden  head  sank  down  on  the 
old  sack,  and  the  blue  eyes  were  veiled  by  their  deli- 
cate half-transparent  lids. 

But  where  was  Silas  Marner  while  this  stranger- 
visitor  had  come  to  his  hearth  ?  He  was  in  the  cot- 
tage, but  he  did  not  see  the  child.  During  the  last 
few  weeks,  since  he  had  lost  his  money,  he  had  con- 


SILAS  MARNER.  161 

tracted  the  habit  of  opening  his  door  and  looking  out 
from  time  to  time,  as  if  he  thought  that  his  money 
might  be  somehow  coming  back  to  him,  or  that  some 
trace,  some  news  of  it,  might  be  mysteriously  on  the 
road,  and  be  caught  by  the  listening  ear  or  the  strain- 
ing eye.  It  was  chiefly  at  night,  when  he  was  not  oc- 
cupied in  his  loom,  that  he  fell  into  this  repetition  of 
an  act  for  which  he  could  have  assigned  no  definite 
purpose,  and  which  can  hardly  be  understood  except 
by  those  who  have  undergone  a  bewildering  separa- 
tion from  a  supremely  loved  object.  In  the  evening 
twilight,  and  later  whenever  the  night  was  not  dark, 
Silas  looked  out  on  that  narrow  prospect  round  the 
Stone-pits,  listening  and  gazing,  not  with  hope,  but 
with  mere  yearning  and  unrest. 

This  morning  he  had  been  told  by  some  of  his 
neighbours  that  it  was  New  Year's  Eve,  and  that  he 
must  sit  up  and  hear  the  old  year  rung  out  and  the 
new  rung  in,  because  that  was  good  luck,  and  might 
bring  his  money  back  again.  This  was  only  a  friend- 
ly Eaveloe  way  of  jesting  with  the  half-crazy  oddities 
of  a  miser,  but  it  had  perhaps  helped  to  throw  Silas 
into  a  more  than  usually  excited  state.  Since  the  on- 
coming of  twilight  he  had  opened  his  door  again  and 
again,  though  only  to  shut  it  immediately  at  seeing  all 
distance  veiled  by  the  falling  snow.  But  the  last  time 
he  opened  it  the  snow  had  ceased,  and  the  clouds  were 
parting  here  and  there.  He  stood  and  listened,  and 
gazed  for  a  long  while — there  was  really  something  on 
the  road  coming  towards  him  then,  but  he  caught  no 
sign  of  it;  and  the  stillness  and  the  wide  trackless 
snow  seemed  to  narrow  his  solitude,  and  touched  his 


162  SILAS  MARNER. 

yearning  with  the  chill  of  despair.  He  went  in  again, 
and  put  his  right  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door  to 
close  it — but  he  did  not  close  it :  he  was  arrested,  as 
he  had  been  already  since  his  loss,  by  the  invisible 
wand  of  catalepsy,  and  stood  like  a  graven  image,  with 
wide  but  sightless  eyes,  holding  open  his  door,  power- 
less to  resist  either  the  good  or  evil  that  might  enter 
there. 

"When  Marner's  sensibility  returned,  he  continued 
the  action  which  had  been  arrested,  and  closed  his 
door,  unaware  of  the  chasm  in  his  consciousness,  un- 
aware of  any  intermediate  change,  except  that  the 
light  had  grown  dim,  and  that  he  was  chilled  and  faint. 
He  thought  he  had  been  too  long  standing  at  the  door 
and  looking  out.  Turning  towards  the  hearth,  where 
the  two  logs  had  fallen  apart,  and  sent  forth  only  a  red 
uncertain  glimmer,  he  seated  himself  on  his  fireside 
chair,  and  was  stooping  to  push  his  logs  together, 
when,  to  his  blurred  vision,  it  seemed  as  if  there  were 
gold  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  hearth.  Gold  ! — his 
own  gold — brought  back  to  him  as  mysteriously  as  it 
had  been  taken  away !  He  felt  his  heart  begin  to  beat 
violently,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  was  unable  to 
stretch  out  his  hand  and  grasp  the  restored  treasure. 
The  heap  of  gold  seemed  to  glow  and  get  larger  be- 
neath his  agitated  gaze.  He  leaned  forward  at  last, 
and  stretched  forth  his  hand ;  but  instead  of  the  hard 
coin  with  the  familiar  resisting  outline,  his  fingers  en- 
countered soft  warm  curls.  In  utter  amazement,  Silas 
fell  on  his  knees  and  bent  his  head  low  to  examine  the 
marvel :  it  was  a  sleeping  child — a  round,  fair  thing, 
with  soft  yellow  rings  all  over  its  head.     Could  this 


SILAS   MARNER.  163 

be  his  little  sister  come  back  to  him  in  a  dream  —  his 
little  sister  whom  he  had  carried  about  in  his  arms  for 
a  year  before  she  died,  when  he  was  a  small  boy  with- 
out shoes  or  stockings?  That  was  the  first  thought 
that  darted  across  Silas's  blank  wonderment.  Was  it 
a  dream  ?  He  rose  to  his  feet  again,  pushed  his  logs 
together,  and,  throwing  on  some  dried  leaves  and 
sticks,  raised  a  flame ;  but  the  flame  did  not  disperse 
the  vision  —  it  only  lit  up  more  distinctly  the  little 
round  form  of  the  child  and  its  shabby  clothing.  It 
was  very  much  like  his  little  sister.  Silas  sank  into 
his  chair  powerless,  under  the  double  presence  of  an 
inexplicable  surprise  and  a  hurrying  influx  of  mem- 
ories. How  and  when  had  the  child  come  in  without 
his  knowledge  ?  He  had  never  been  beyond  the  door. 
But  along  with  that  question,  and  almost  thrusting  it 
away,  there  was  a  vision  of  the  old  home  and  the  old 
streets  leading  to  Lantern  Yard — and  within  that  vis- 
ion another,  of  the  thoughts  which  had  been  present 
with  him  in  those  far-off  scenes.  The  thoughts  were 
strange  to  him  now,  like  old  friendships  impossible  to 
revive ;  and  yet  he  had  a  dreamy  feeling  that  this 
child  was  somehow  a  message  come  to  him  from  that 
far-off  life :  it  stirred  fibres  that  had  never  been  moved 
in  Eaveloe  —  old  quiverings  of  tenderness  —  old  im- 
pressions of  awe  at  the  presentiment  of  some  Power 
presiding  over  his  life ;  for  his  imagination  had  not 
yet  extricated  itself  from  the  sense  of  mystery  in  the 
child's  sudden  presence,  and  had  formed  no  conjec- 
tures of  ordinary  natural  means  by  which  the  event 
could  have  been  brought  about. 

But  there  was  a  cry  on  the  hearth :  the  child  had 


164  SILAS  MARKER. 

awaked,  and  Marner  stooped  to  lift  it  on  his  knee.  It 
clung  round  his  neck,  and  burst  louder  and  louder  into 
that  mingling  of  inarticulate  cries  with  "mammy"  by 
which  little  children  express  the  bewilderment  of  wak- 
ing. Silas  pressed  it  to  him,  and  almost  unsconscious- 
ly  uttered  sounds  of  hushing  tenderness,  while  he  be- 
thought himself  that  some  of  his  porridge,  which  had 
got  cool  by  the  dying  fire,  would  do  to  feed  the  child 
with  if  it  were  only  warmed  up  a  little. 

He  had  plenty  to  do  through  the  next  hour.  The 
porridge,  sweetened  with  some  dry  brown  sugar  from 
an  old  store  which  he  had  refrained  from  using  for 
himself,  stopped  the  cries  of  the  little  one,  and  made 
her  lift  her  blue  eyes  with  a  wide  quiet  gaze  at  Silas, 
as  he  put  the  spoon  into  her  mouth.  Presently  she 
slipped  from  his  knee  and  began  to  toddle  about,  but 
with  a  pretty  stagger  that  made  Silas  jump  up  and 
follow  her  lest  she  should  fall  against  anything  that 
would  hurt  her.  But  she  only  fell  in  a  sitting  pos- 
ture on  the  ground,  and  began  to  pull  at  her  boots, 
looking  up  at  him  with  a  crying  face  as  if  the  boots 
hurt  her.  He  took  her  on  his  knee  again,  but  it  was 
some  time  before  it  occurred  to  Silas's  dull  bachelor 
mind  that  the  wet  boots  were  the  grievance,  pressing 
on  her  warm  ankles.  He  got  them  off  with  difficulty, 
and  baby  was  at  once  happily  occupied  with  the  pri- 
mary mystery  of  her  own  toes,  inviting  Silas,  with 
much  chuckling,  to  consider  the  mystery  too.  But 
the  wet  boots  had  at  last  suggested  to  Silas  that  the 
child  had  been  walking  on  the  snow,  and  this  roused 
him  from  his  entire  oblivion  of  any  ordinary  means 
by  which  it  could  have  entered  or  been  brought  into 


SILAS  MARNER.  165 

his  house.  Under  the  prompting  of  this  new  idea, 
and  without  waiting  to  form  conjectures,  he  raised  the 
child  in  his  arms,  and  went  to  the  door.  As  soon  as 
he  had  opened  it,  there  was  the  cry  of  "mammy" 
again,  which  Silas  had  not  heard  since  the  child's  first 
hungry  waking.  Bending  forward,  he  could  just  dis- 
cern the  marks  made  by  the  little  feet  on  the  virgin 
snow,  and  he  followed  their  track  to  the  furze  bushes. 
"Mammy!"  the  little  one  cried  again  and  again, 
stretching  itself  forward  so  as  almost  to  escape  from 
Silas's  arms,  before  he  himself  was  aware  that  there 
was  something  more  than  the  bush  before  him — that 
there  was  a  human  body,  with  the  head  sunk  low  in 
the  furze,  and  half  covered  with  the  shaken  snow. 


166  SILAS  MARNER. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

It  was  after  the  early  supper-time  at  the  Red  House, 
and  the  entertainment  was  in  that  stage  when  bash- 
fulness  itself  had  passed  into  easy  jollity,  when  gentle- 
men, conscious  of  unusual  accomplishments,  could  at 
length  be  prevailed  on  to  dance  a  hornpipe,  and  when 
the  Squire  preferred  talking  loudly,  scattering  snuff, 
and  patting  his  visitors'  backs,  to  sitting  longer  at  the 
whist-table — a  choice  exasperating  to  uncle  Kimble, 
who,  being  always  volatile  in  sober  business  hours, 
became  intense  and  bitter  over  cards  and  brandy, 
shuffled  before  his  adversary's  deal  with  a  glare  of 
suspicion,  and  turned  up  a  mean  trump-card  with  an 
air  of  inexpressible  disgust,  as  if  in  a  world  where 
such  things  could  happen  one  might  as  well  enter  on 
a  course  of  reckless  profligacy.  When  the  evening 
had  advanced  to  this  pitch  of  freedom  and  enjoyment, 
it  was  usual  for  the  servants,  the  heavy  duties  of  sup- 
per being  well  over,  to  get  their  share  of  amusement 
by  coming  to  look  on  at  the  dancing ;  so  that  the  back 
regions  of  the  house  were  left  in  solitude. 

There  were  two  doors  by  which  the  White  .Parlour 
was  entered  from  the  hall,  and  they  were  both  stand- 
ing open  for  the  sake  of  air ;  but  the  lower  one  was 
crowded  with  the  servants  and  villagers,  and  only  the 
upper  doorway  was  left  free.  Bob  Cass  was  figuring 
in  a  hornpipe,  and  his  father,  very  proud  of  this  little 


SILAS  MARNEK.  167 

son,  whom  he  repeatedly  declared  to  be  just  like  him- 
self in  his  young  days,  in  a  tone  that  implied  this  to 
be  the  very  highest  stamp  of  juvenile  merit,  was  the 
centre  of  a  group  who  had  placed  themselves  opposite 
the  performer,  not  far  from  the  upper  door.  Godfrey 
was  standing  a  little  way  off,  not  to  admire  his  brother's 
dancing,  but  to  keep  sight  of  Nancy,  who  was  seated 
in  the  group,  near  her  father.  He  stood  aloof,  because 
he  wished  to  avoid  suggesting  himself  as  a  subject  for 
the  Squire's  fatherly  jokes  in  connection  with  matri- 
mony and  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter's  beauty,  which 
were  likely  to  become  more  and  more  explicit.  But 
he  had  the  prospect  of  dancing  with  her  again  when 
the  hornpipe  was  concluded,  and  in  the  meanwhile  it 
was  very  pleasant  to  get  long  glances  at  her  quite  un- 
observed. 

But  when  Godfrey  was  lifting  his  eyes  from  one  of 
those  long  glances,  they  encountered  an  object  as  start- 
ling to  him  at  that  moment  as  if  it  had  been  an  appa- 
rition from  the  dead.  It  was  an  apparition  from  that 
hidden  life  which  lies,  like  a  dark  by -street,  behind 
the  goodly  ornamented  facade  that  meets  the  sunlight 
and  the  gaze  of  respectable  admirers.  It  was  his  own 
child,  carried  in  Silas  Marner's  arms.  That  was  his 
instantaneous  impression,  unaccompanied  by  doubt, 
though  he  had  not  seen  the  child  for  months  past; 
and  when  the  hope  was  rising  that  he  might  possibly 
be  mistaken,  Mr.  Crackenthorp  and  Mr.  Lammeter  had 
already  advanced  to  Silas,  in  astonishment  at  this 
strange  advent.  Godfrey  joined  them  immediately, 
unable  to  rest  without  hearing  every  word — trying  to 
control  himself,  but  conscious  that  if  any  one  noticed 


168  SILAS  MARNER. 

him,  they  must  see  that  he  was  white-lipped  and  trem- 
bling. 

But  now  all  eyes  at  that  end  of  the  room  were  bent 
on  Silas  Marner ;  the  Squire  himself  had  risen,  and 
asked  angrily,  "How's  this? — what's  this? — what  do 
you  do  coming  in  here  in  this  way  ?" 

"  I'm  come  for  the  doctor — I  want  the  doctor,"  Si- 
las had  said,  in  the  first  moment,  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Marner?"  said  the  rec- 
tor. "  The  doctor's  here ;  but  say  quietly  what  you 
want  him  for." 

"  It's  a  woman,"  said  Silas,  speaking  low,  and  half- 
breathlessly,  just  as  Godfrey  came  up.  "She's  dead, 
I  think — dead  in  the  snow  at  the  Stone-pits — not  far 
from  my  door." 

Godfrey  felt  a  great  throb :  there  was  one  terror  in 
his  mind  at  that  moment :  it  was,  that  the  woman 
might  not  be  dead.  That  was  an  evil  terror — an  ugly 
inmate  to  have  found  a  nestling-place  in  Godfrey's 
kindly  disposition;  but  no  disposition  is  a  security 
from  evil  wishes  to  a  man  whose  happiness  hangs  on 
duplicity. 

"  Hush,  hush !"  said  Mr.  Crackenthorp.  "  Go  out 
into  the  hall  there.  I'll  fetch  the  doctor  to  you. 
Found  a  woman  in  the  snow — and  thinks  she's  dead," 
he  added,  speaking  low  to  the  Squire.  "  Better  say 
as  little  about  it  as  possible :  it  will  shock  the  ladies. 
Just  tell  them  a  poor  woman  is  ill  from  cold  and  hun- 
ger.    I'll  go  and  fetch  Kimble." 

By  this  time,  however,  the  ladies  had  pressed  for- 
ward, curious  to  know  what  could  have  brought  the 
solitary  linen-weaver  there  under  such  strange  circum- 


SILAS  MARNEB.  169 

stances,  and  interested  in  the  pretty  child,  who,  half 
alarmed  and  half-attracted  by  the  brightness  and  the 
numerous  company,  now  frowned  and  hid  her  face, 
now  lifted  up  her  head  again  and  looked  round  pla- 
cably, until  a  touch  or  a  coaxing  word  brought  back 
the  frown,  and  made  her  bury  her  face  with  new  de- 
termination. 

"What  child  is  it?"  said  several  ladies  at  once, 
and,  among  the  rest,  Nancy  Lammeter,  addressing 
Godfrey. 

"  I  don't  know — some  poor  woman's  who  has  been 
found  in  the  snow,  I  believe,"  was  the  answer  God- 
frey wrung  from  himself  with  a  terrible  effort.  ("  Aft- 
er all,  am  I  certain  ?"  he  hastened  to  add,  silently,  in 
anticipation  of  his  own  conscience.) 

"  Why,  you'd  better  leave  the  child  here,  then,  Mas- 
ter Marner,"  said  good-natured  Mrs.  Kimble,  hesitat- 
ing, however,  to  take  those  dingy  clothes  into  contact 
with  her  own  ornamented  satin  boddice.  "I'll  tell 
one  o'  the  girls  to  fetch  it." 

"  No — no — I  can't  part  with  it,  I  can't  let  it  go," 
said  Silas,  abruptly.  "  It's  come  to  me — I've  a  right 
to  keep  it." 

The  proposition  to  take  the  child  from  him  had 
come  to  Silas  quite  unexpectedly,  and  his  speech,  ut- 
tered under  a  strong  sudden  impulse,  was  almost  like 
a  revelation  to  himself:  a  minute  before,  he  had  no 
distinct  intention  about  the  child. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ?"  said  Mrs.  Kimble, 
in  mild  surprise,  to  her  neighbour. 

"  Now,  ladies,  I  must  trouble  you  to  stand  aside," 
said  Mr.  Kimble,  coming  from  the  card-room,  in  some 

H 


170  SILAS  MARNER. 

bitterness  at  the  interruption,  but  drilled  by  the  long 
habit  of  his  profession  into  obedience  to  unpleasant 
calls,  even  when  he  was  hardly  sober. 

"It's  a  nasty  business  turning  out  now,  eh,  Kim- 
ble?" said  the  Squire.  "  He  might  ha'  gone  for  your 
young  fellow — the  'prentice,  there — what's  his  name?" 

"Might?  ay  —  what's  the  use  of  talking  about 
might?"  growled  uncle  Kimble,  hastening  out  with 
Marner,  and  followed  by  Mr.  Crackenthorp  and  God- 
frey. "  Get  me  a  pair  of  thick  boots,  Godfrey,  will 
you  ?  And  stay,  let  somebody  run  to  Winthrop's  and 
fetch  Dolly — she's  the  best  woman  to  get.  Ben  was 
here  himself  before  supper ;  is  he  gone  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  met  him,"  said  Marner ;  "  but  I  couldn't 
stop  to  tell  him  anything,  only  I  said  I  was  going  for 
the  doctor,  and  he  said  the  doctor  was  at  the  Squire's. 
And  I  made  haste  and  ran,  and  there  was  nobody  to 
be  seen  at  the  back  o'  the  house,  and  so  I  went  in  to 
where  the  company  was." 

The  child,  no  longer  distracted  by  the  bright  light 
and  the  smiling  women's  faces,  began  to  cry  and  call 
for  "mammy,"  though  always  clinging  to  Marner, 
who  had  apparently  won  her  thorough  confidence. 
Godfrey  had  come  back  with  the  boots,  and  felt  the 
cry  as  if  some  fibre  were  drawn  tight  within  him. 

"  I'll  go,"  he  said,  hastily,  eager  for  some  move- 
ment; "I'll  go  and  fetch  the  woman  —  Mrs.  Win- 
throp." 

"  0,  pooh — send  somebody  else,"  said  uncle  Kim- 
ble, hurrying  away  with  Marner. 

"  You'll  let  me  know  if  I  can  be  of  any  use,  Kim- 
ble," said  Mr.  Crackenthorp.  But  the  doctor  was  out 
of  hearing. 


SILAS  MARKER.  171 

Godfrey,  too,  had  disappeared :  lie  was  gone  to 
snatch  his  hat  and  coat,  having  just  reflection  enough 
to  remember  that  he  must  not  look  like  a  madman ; 
but  he  rushed  out  of  the  house  into  the  snow  without 
heeding  his  thin  shoes. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  on  his  rapid  way  to  the 
Stone-pits  by  the  side  of  Dolly,  who,  though  feeling 
that  she  was  entirely  in  her  place  in  encountering 
cold  and  snow  on  an  errand  of  mercy,  was  much  con- 
cerned at  a  young  gentleman's  getting  his  feet  wet 
under  a  like  impulse. 

"You'd  a  deal  better  go  back,  sir,"  said  Dolly,  with 
respectful  compassion.  ■ '  You've  no  call  to  catch  cold ; 
and  I'd  ask  you  if  you'd  be  so  good  as  tell  my  hus- 
band to  come,  on  your  way  back — he's  at  the  Rain- 
bow, I  doubt — if  you  found  him  anyway  sober  enough 
to  be  o'  use.  Or  else,  there's  Mrs.  Snell  'ud  happen 
send  the  boy  up  to  fetch  and  carry,  for  there  may  be 
things  wanted  from  the  doctor's." 

11  No,  I'll  stay,  now  I'm  once  out — I'll  stay  outside 
here,"  said  Godfrey,  when  they  came  opposite  Mar- 
ner's  cottage.  u  You  can  come  and  tell  me  if  I  can 
do  anything." 

"Well,  sir,  you're  very  good:  you've  a  tender 
heart,"  said  Dolly,  going  to  the  door. 

Godfrey  was  too  painfully  preoccupied  to  feel  a 
twinge  of  self-reproach  at  this  undeserved  praise.  He 
walked  up  and  down,  unconscious  that  he  was  plung- 
ing ankle-deep  in  snow,  unconscious  of  everything  but 
trembling  suspense  about  what  was  going  on  in  the 
cottage,  and  the  effect  of  each  alternative  on  his  fu- 
ture lot.     No,  not  quite  unconscious  of  everything 


172  SILAS  MARNER. 

else.  Deeper  down,  and  half-smothered  by  passionate 
desire  and  dread,  there  was  the  sense  that  he  ought 
not  to  be  waiting  on  these  alternatives ;  that  he  ought 
to  accept  the  consequences  of  his  deeds,  own  the  mis- 
erable wife,  and  fulfil  the  claims  of  the  helpless  child. 
But  he  had  not  moral  courage  enough  to  contemplate 
that  active  renunciation  of  Nancy  as  possible  for  him: 
he  had  only  conscience  and  heart  enough  to  make 
him  for  ever  uneasy  under  the  weakness  that  forbade 
the  renunciation.  And  at  this  moment  his  mind  leap- 
ed away  from  all  restraint  towards  the  sudden  pros- 
pect of  deliverance  from  his  long  bondage. 

"Is  she  dead?"  said  the  voice  that  predominated 
over  every  other  within  him.  "  If  she  is,  I  may  mar- 
ry Nancy ;  and  then  I  shall  be  a  good  fellow  in  future, 
and  have  no  secrets,  and  the  child — shall  be  taken 
care  of  somehow."  But  across  that  vision  came  the 
other  possibility — "She  may  live,  and  then  it's  all  up 
with  me." 

Godfrey  never  knew  how  long  it  was  before  the 
door  of  the  cottage  opened  and  Mr.  Kimble  came  out. 
He  went  forward  to  meet  his  uncle,  prepared  to  sup- 
press the  agitation  he  must  feel,  whatever  news  he 
was  to  hear. 

"I  waited  for  you,  as  I'd  come  so  far,"  he  said, 
speaking  first. 

"  Pooh,  it  was  nonsense  for  you  to  come  out :  why 
didn't  you  send  one  of  the  men  ?  There's  nothing  to 
be  done.  She's  dead — has  been  dead  for  hours,  I 
should  say." 

"What  sort  of  woman  is  she?"  said  Godfrey,  feel- 
ing the  blood  rush  to  his  face. 


SILAS  MARNER.  173 

"  A  young  woman,  but  emaciated,  with  long  black 
hair.  Some  vagrant — quite  in  rags.  She's  got  a  wed- 
ding-ring on,  however.  They  must  fetch  her  away  to 
the  workhouse  to-morrow.     Come,  come  along." 

"I  want  to  look  at  her,"  said  Godfrey.  "I  think 
I  saw  such  a  woman  yesterday.  I'll  overtake  you  in 
a  minute  or  two." 

Mr.  Kimble  went  on,  and  Godfrey  turned  back  to 
the  cottage.  He  cast  only  one  glance  at  the  dead  face 
on  the  pillow,  which  Dolly  had  smoothed  with  decent 
care ;  but  he  remembered  that  last  look  at  his  unhap- 
py hated  wife  so  well,  that  at  the  end  of  sixteen  years 
every  line  in  the  worn  face  was  present  to  him  when 
he  told  the  full  story  of  this  night. 

He  turned  immediately  towards  the  hearth  where 
Silas  Marner  sat  lulling  the  child.  She  was  perfectly 
quiet  now,  but  not  asleep — only  soothed  by  sweet  por- 
ridge and  warmth  into  that  wide-gazing  calm  which 
makes  us  older  human  beings,  with  our  inward  tur- 
moil, feel  a  certain  awe  in  the  presence  of  a  little  child, 
such  as  we  feel  before  some  quiet  majesty  or  beauty 
in  the  earth  or  sky — before  a  steady-glowing  planet, 
or  a  full-flowered  eglantine,  or  the  bending  trees  over 
a  silent  pathway.  The  wide-open  blue  eyes  looked 
up  at  Godfrey's  without  any  uneasiness  or  sign  of  rec- 
ognition :  the  child  could  make  no  visible  audible 
claim  on  its  father ;  and  the  father  felt  a  strange  mix- 
ture of  feelings,  a  conflict  of  regret  and  joy,  that  the 
pulse  of  that  little  heart  had  no  response  for  the  half- 
jealous  yearning  in  his  own,  when  the  blue  eyes  turn- 
ed away  from  him  slowly,  and  fixed  themselves  on 
the  weaver's  queer  face,  which  was  bent  low  down  to 


174  BILAS  MARNER. 

look  at  them,  while  the  small  hand  began  to  pull  Mar- 
ner's  withered  cheek  with  loving  disfiguration. 

"You'll  take  the  child  to  the  parish  to-morrow?" 
asked  Godfrey,  speaking  as  indifferently  as  he  could. 

"  Who  says  so  ?"  said  Marner,  sharply.  "  Will  they 
make  me  take  her?" 

"  Why,  you  wouldn't  like  to  keep  her,  should  you 
— an  old  bachelor  like  you?" 

"  Till  anybody  shows  they've  a  right  to  take  her 
from  me,"  said  Marner.  "  The  mother's  dead,  and  I 
reckon  it's  got  no  father :  it's  a  lone  thing — and  I'm  a 
lone  thing.  My  money's  gone,  I  don't  know  where — 
and  this  is  come  from  I  don't  know  where.  I  know 
nothing — I'm  partly  mazed." 

"Poor  little  thing!"  said  Godfrey.  "Let  me  give 
something  towards  finding  it  clothes." 

He  had  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  found  half- 
a-guinea,  and,  thrusting  it  into  Silas's  hand,  he  hurried 
out  of  the  cottage  to  overtake  Mr.  Kimble. 

"  Ah,  I  see  it's  not  the  same  woman  I  saw,"  he  said, 
as  he  came  up.  "It's  a  pretty  little  child:  the  old 
fellow  seems  to  want  to  keep  it;  that's  strange  for  a 
miser  like  him.  But  I  gave  him  a  trifle  to  help  him 
out:  the  parish  isn't  likely  to  quarrel  with  him  for 
the  right  to  keep  the  child." 

"  No ;  but  I've  seen  the  time  when  I  might  have 
quarrelled  with  him  for  it  myself.  It's  too  late  now, 
though.  If  the  child  ran  into  the  fire,  your  aunt's  too 
fat  to  overtake  it:  she  could  only  sit  and  grunt  like 
an  alarmed  sow.  But  what  a  fool  you  are,  Godfrey, 
to  come  out  in  your  dancing  shoes  and  stockings  in 
this  way — and  you  oner  of  the  beaux  of  the  evening, 


SILAS  MARNER.  175 

and  at  your  own  house!  "What  do  you  mean  by 
such  freaks,  young  fellow?  Has  Miss  Nancy  been 
cruel,  and  do  you  want  to  spite  her  by  spoiling  your 
pumps?" 

"  O,  everything  has  been  disagreeable  to-night.  I 
was  tired  to  death  of  jigging  and  gallanting,  and  that 
bother  about  the  hornpipes.  And  I'd  got  to  dance 
with  the  other  Miss  Gunn,"  said  Godfrey,  glad  of  the 
subterfuge  his  uncle  had  suggested  to  him. 

The  prevarication  and  white  lies  which  a  mind  that 
keeps  itself  ambitiously  pure  is  as  uneasy  under  as  a 
great  artist  under  the  false  touches  that  no  eye  detects 
but  his  own,  are  worn  as  lightly  as  mere  trimmings 
when  once  the  actions  have  become  a  lie. 

Godfrey  reappeared  in  the  White  Parlour  with  dry 
feet,  and,  since  the  truth  must  be  told,  with  a  sense  of 
relief  and  gladness  that  was  too  strong  for  painful 
thoughts  to  struggle  with.  For  could  he  not  venture 
now,  whenever  opportunity  offered,  to  say  the  tender- 
est  things  to  Nancy  Lammeter — to  promise  her  and 
himself  that  he  would  always  be  just  what  she  would 
desire  to  see  him?  There  was  no  danger  that  his 
dead  wife  would  be  recognised :  those  were  not  days 
of  active  inquiry  and  wide  report ;  and  as  for  the  reg- 
istry of  their  marriage,  that  was  a  long  way  off,  buried 
in  unturned  pages,  away  from  every  one's  interest  but 
his  own.  Dunsey  might  betray  him  if  he  came  back ; 
but  Dunsey  might  be  won  to  silence. 

And  when  events  turn  out  so  much  better  for  a  man 
than  he  has  had  reason  to  dread,  is  it  not  a  proof  that 
his  conduct  has  been  less  foolish  and  blameworthy 
than  it  might  otherwise  have  appeared?    When  we 


176  SILAS  MARKER. 

are  treated  well,  we  naturally  begin  to  think  that  we 
are  not  altogether  unmeritorious,  and  that  it  is  only 
just  we  should  treat  ourselves  well,  and  not  mar  our 
own  good  fortune.  "Where,  after  all,  would  be  the  use 
of  his  confessing  the  past  to  Nancy  Lammeter,  and 
throwing  away  his  happiness? — nay,  hers?  for  he  felt 
some  confidence  that  she  loved  him.  As  for  the  child, 
he  would  see  that  it  was  cared  for :  he  would  never 
forsake  it ;  he  would  do  everything  but  own  it.  Per- 
haps it  would  be  just  as  happy  in  life  without  being 
owned  by  its  father,  seeing  that  nobody  could  tell  how 
things  would  turn  out,  and  that — is  there  any  other 
reason  wanted  ? — well,  then,  that  the  father  would  be 
much  happier  without  owning  the  child. 


SILAS  MARNER.  177 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

There  was  a  pauper's  burial  that  week  in  Eaveloe, 
and  up  Kench  Yard  at  Batherley  it  was  known  that 
the  dark-haired  woman  with  the  fair  child,  who  had 
lately  come  to  lodge  there,  was  gone  away  again. 
That  was  all  the  express  note-  taken  that  Molly  had 
disappeared  from  the  eyes  of  men.  But  the  unwept 
death  which,  to  the  general  lot,  seemed  as  trivial  as 
the  summer-shed  leaf,  was  charged  with  the  force  of 
destiny  to  certain  human  lives  that  we  know  of, 
shaping  their  joys  and  sorrows  even  to  the  end. 

Silas  Marner's  determination  to  keep  the  "  tramp's 
child"  was  matter  of  hardly  less  surprising  and  iter- 
ated talk  in  the  village  than  the  robbery  of  his  money. 
That  softening  of  feeling  towards  him  which  dated 
from  his  misfortune,  that  merging  of  suspicion  and 
dislike  in  a  rather  contemptuous  pity  for  him  as  lone 
and  crazy,  was  now  accompanied  with  a  more  active 
sympathy,  especially  amongst  the  women.  Notable 
mothers,  who  knew  what  it  was  to  keep  children 
"  whole  and  sweet ;"  lazy  mothers,  who  knew  what  it 
was  to  be  interrupted  in  folding  their  arms  and 
scratching  their  elbows  by  the  mischievous  propensi- 
ties of  children  just  firm  on  their  legs,  were  equally 
interested  in  conjecturing  how  a  lone  man  would 
manage  with  a  two-year-old  child  on  his  hands,  and 
were  equally  ready  with  their  suggestions :  the  nota- 

H2 


178  SILAS   MARNER. 

ble  chiefly  telling  him  what  he  had  better  do,  and  the 
lazy  ones  being  emphatic  in  telling  him  what  he  would 
never  be  able  to  do. 

Among  the  notable  mothers,  Dolly  Winthrop  was 
the  one  whose  neighbourly  offices  were  the  most  ac- 
ceptable to  Marner,  for  they  were  rendered  without 
any  show  of  bustling  instruction.  Silas  had  shown 
her  the  half-guinea  given  to  him  by  Godfrey,  and  had 
asked  her  what  he  should  do  about  getting  some 
clothes  for  the  child. 

"  Eh,  Master  Marne^r,"  said  Dolly,  "  there's  no  call 
to  buy  no  more  nor  a  pair  o'  shoes;  for  I've  got  the 
little  petticoats  as  Aaron  wore  five  years  ago,  and  it's 
ill  spending  the  money  on  them  baby-clothes,  for  the 
child  'ull  grow  like  grass  i'  May,  bless  it — that  it 
will." 

And  the  same  day  Dolly  brought  her  bundle,  and 
displayed  to  Marner,  one  by  one,  the  tiny  garments  in 
their  due  order  of  succession,  most  of  them  patched 
and  darned,  but  clean  and  neat  as  fresh-sprung  herbs. 
This  was  the  introduction  to  a  great  ceremony  with 
soap  and  water,  from  which  baby  came  out  in  new 
beauty,  and  sat  on  Dolly's  knee,  handling  her  toes,  and 
chuckling  and  patting  her  palms  together  with  an  air 
of  having  made  several  discoveries  about  herself, 
which  she  communicated  by  alternate  sounds  of  "  gug- 
gug-gug,"  and  "mammy."  The  "mammy"  was  not 
a  cry  of  need  or  uneasiness :  Baby  had  been  used  to 
utter  it  without  expecting  either  tender  sound  or  touch 
to  follow. 

"  Anybody  'ud  think  the  angils  in  heaven  couldn't 
be  prettier,"  said  Dolly,  rubbing  the  golden  curls  and 


SILAS   MAEXEK.  179 

kissing  them.  "And  to  think  of  its  being  covered 
wi'  them  dirty  rags — -and  the  poor  mother — froze  to 
death;  but  there's  Them  as  took  care  of  it,  and 
brought  it  to  your  door,  Master  Marner.  The  door 
was  open,  and  it  walked  in  over  the  snow,  like  as  if  it 
had  been  a  little  starved  robin.  Didn't  you  say  the 
door  was  open  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Silas,  meditatively.  "Yes — the  door 
was  open.  The  money's  gone  I  don't  know  where, 
and  this  is  come  from  I  don't  know  where." 

He  had  not  mentioned  to  any  one  his  unconscious- 
ness of  the  child's  entrance,  shrinking  from  questions 
which  might  lead  to  the  fact  he  himself  suspected — 
namely,  that  he  had  been  in  one  of  his  trances. 

"  Ah,"  said  Dolly,  with  soothing  gravity,  "  it's  like 
the  night  and  the  morning,  and  the  sleeping  and  the 
waking,  and  the  rain  and  the  harvest — one  goes  and 
the  other  comes,  and  we  know  nothing  how  nor 
where.  We  may  strive  and  scrat  and  fend,  but  it's 
little  we  can  do  arter  all — the  big  things  come  and  go 
wi'  no  striving  o'  our'n — they  do,  that  they  do ;  and  I 
think  you're  in  the  right  on  it  to  keep  the  little  un, 
Master  Marner,  seeing  as  it's  been  sent  to  you,  though 
there's  folks  as  thinks  different.  You'll  happen  be  a 
bit  moithered  with  it  while  it's  so  little ;  but  I'll  come, 
and  welcome,  and  see  to  it  for  you :  I've  a  bit  o'  time 
to  spare  most  days,  for  when  one  gets  up  betimes  i7 
the  morning,  the  clock  seems  to  stan'  still  tow'rt  ten, 
afore  it's  time  to  go  about  the  victual.  So,  as  I  say, 
I'll  come  and  see  to  the  child  for  you,  and  welcome." 

"  Thank  you  .  .  .  kindly,"  said  Silas,  hesitating  a 
little.     "I'll  be  glad  if  you'll  tell  me  things.    But," 


180  SILAS  MARNER. 

lie  added,  uneasily,  leaning  forward  to  look  at  Baby 
with  some  jealousy,  as  she  was  resting  her  head  back- 
ward against  Dolly's  arm,  and  eyeing  him  contentedly 
from  a  distance — "  But  I  want  to  do  things  for  it  my- 
self, else  it  may  get  fond  o'  somebody  else,  and  not  fond 
o'  me.  I've  been  used  to  fending  for  myself  in  the 
house — I  can  learn,  I  can  learn." 

"  Eh,  to  be  sure,"  said  Dolly,  gently.  "  I've  seen 
men  as  are  wonderful  handy  wi'  children.  The  men 
are  awk'ard  and  contrairy  mostly,  God  help  'em — but 
when  the  drink's  out  of  'em,  they  aren't  unsensible, 
though  they're  bad  for  leeching  and  bandaging — so 
fiery  and  unpatient.  You  see  this  goes  first,  next  the 
skin,"  proceeded  Dolly,  taking  up  the  little  shirt,  and 
putting  it  on. 

"  Yes,"  said  Marner,  docilely,  bringing  his  eyes  very 
close,  that  they  might  be  initiated  in  the  mysteries ; 
whereupon  Baby  seized  his  head  with  both  her  small 
arms,  and  put  her  lips  against  his  face  with  purring 
noises. 

"  See  there,"  said  Dolly,  with  a  woman's  tender  tact, 
"  she's  fondest  o'  you.  She  wants  to  go  o'  your  lap, 
I'll  be  bound.  Go,  then :  take  her,  Master  Marner ; 
you  can  put  the  things  on,  and  then  you  can  say  as 
you've  done  for  her  from  the  first  of  her  coming  to 
you." 

Marner  took  her  on  his  lap,  trembling  with  an  emo- 
tion mysterious  to  himself,  at  something  unknown 
dawning  on  his  life.  Thought  and  feeling  were  so 
confused  within  him,  that  if  he  had  tried  to  give  them 
utterance,  he  could  only  have  said  that  the  child  was 
come  instead  of  the  gold — that  the  gold  had  turned 


SILAS  MARNER.  181 

into  the  child.  He  took  the  garments  from  Dolly, 
and  put  them  on  under  her  teaching ;  interrupted,  of 
course,  by  Baby's  gymnastics. 

"  There,  then !  why,  you  take  to  it  quite  easy,  Mas* 
ter  Marner,"  said  Dolly ;  "  but  what  shall  you  do  when 
you're  forced  to  sit  in  your  loom?  For  she'll  get 
busier  and  mischievouser  every  day — she  will,  bless 
her.  It's  lucky  you've  got  that  high  hearth  i'stead  of 
a  grate,  for  that  keeps  the  fire  more  out  of  her  reach ; 
but  if  you've  got  anything  as  can  be  spilt  or  broke,  or 
as  is  fit  to  cut  her  fingers  off,  she'll  be  at  it — and  it  is 
but  right  you  should  know." 

Silas  meditated  a  little  while  in  some  perplexity. 
"  I'll  tie  her  to  the  leg  o'  the  loom,"  he  said  at  last — 
"  tie  her  with  a  good  long  strip  o3  something." 

"  Well,  mayhap  that'll  do,  as  it's  a  little  gell,  for 
they're  easier  persuaded  to  sit  i'  one  place  nor  the  lads. 
I  know  what  the  lads  are ;  for  I've  had  four — four  I've 
had,  God  knows — and  if  you  was  to  take  and  tie  'em 
up,  they'd  make  a  fighting  and  a  crying  as  if  you  was 
ringing  pigs.  But  I'll  bring  you  my  little  chair,  and 
some  bits  o'  red  rag  and  things  for  her  to  play  wi' ; 
an'  she'll  sit  and  chatter  to  'em  as  if  they  was  alive. 
Eh,  if  it  wasn't  a  sin  to  the  lads  to  wish  'em  made  dif- 
ferent, bless  'em,  I  should  ha'  been  glad  for  one  of  'em 
to  be  a  little  gell ;  and  to  think  as  I  could  ha'  taught 
her  to  scour,  and  mend,  and  the  knitting,  and  every- 
thing. But  I  can  teach  'em  this  little  un,  Master  Mar- 
ner, when  she  gets  old  enough." 

"  But  she'll  be  my  little  un,"  said  Marner,  rather 
hastily.     "  She'll  be  nobody  else's." 

"No,  to  be  sure;  you'll  have  a  right  to  her  if 


182  SILAS  MARNER. 

you're  a  father  to  her,  and  bring  her  up  according. 
But,"  added  Dolly,  coming  to  a  point  which  she  had 
determined  beforehand  to  touch  upon,  "you  must 
bring  her  up  like  christened  folks's  children,  and  take 
her  to  church,  and  let  her  learn  her  catechise,  as  my  lit- 
tle Aaron  can  say  off — the  { I  believe,'  and  everything, 
and  '  hurt  nobody  by  word  or  deed,' — as  well  as  if  he 
was  the  clerk.  That's  what  you  must  do,  Master 
Marner,  if  you'd  do  the  right  thing  by  the  orphin 
child." 

Marner's  pale  face  flushed  suddenly  under  a  new 
anxiety.  His  mind  was  too  busy  trying  to  give  some 
definite  bearing  to  Dolly's  words  for  him  to  think  of 
answering  her. 

"  And  it's  my  belief,"  she  went  on,  "  as  the  poor  lit- 
tle creatur  has  never  been  christened,  and  it's  nothing 
but  right  as  the  parson  should  be  spoke  to ;  and  if  you 
was  noways  unwilling,  I'd  talk  to  Mr.  Macey  about  it 
this  very  day.  For  if  the  child  ever  went  anyways 
wrong,  and  you  hadn't  done  your  part  by  it,  Master 
Marner — 'noculation,  and  everything  to  save  it  from 
harm — it  'ud  be  a  thorn  i'  your  bed  for  ever  o'  this 
side  the  grave ;  and  I  can't  think  as  it  'ud  be  easy  ly- 
ing down  for  anybody  when  they'd  got  to  another 
world,  if  they  hadn't  done  their  part  by  the  helpless 
children  as  come  wi'out  their  own  asking." 

Dolly  herself  was  disposed  to  be  silent  for  some 
time  now,  for  she  had  spoken  from  the  depths  of  her 
own  simple  belief,  and  was  much  concerned  to  know 
whether  her  words  would  produce  the  desired  effect 
on  Silas.  He  was  puzzled  and  anxious,  for  Dolly's 
word  "christened"  conveyed  no  distinct  meaning  to 


SILAS   MABNEB.  183 

him.  He  had  only  heard  of  baptism,  and  had  only 
seen  the  baptism  of  grown-up  men  and  women. 

"  What  is  it  as  you  mean  by  '  christened  ?'"  he  said 
at  last,  timidly.  "  Won't  folks  be  good  to  her  without 
it?" 

" Dear,  dear!  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  with  gen- 
tle distress  and  compassion.  "  Had  you  never  no  fa- 
ther nor  mother  as  taught  you  to  say  your  prayers, 
and  as  there's  good  words  and  good  things  to  keep  us 
from  harm  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas,  in  a  low  voice ;  "  I  know  a  deal 
about  that — used  to,  used  to.  But  your  ways  are  dif- 
ferent :  my  country  was  a  good  way  off."  He  paused 
a  few  moments,  and  then  added,  more  decidedly,  "But 
I  want  to  do  everything  as  can  be  done  for  the  child. 
And  whatever's  right  for  it  i'  this  country,  and  you 
think  'ull  do  it  good,  I'll  act  according,  if  you'll  tell 
me." 

"Well,  then,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  inwardly 
rejoiced,  "I'll  ask  Mr. Macey  to  speak  to  the  parson 
about  it ;  and  you  must  fix  on  a  name  for  it,  because 
it  must  have  a  name  giv'  it  when  it's  christened." 

"My  mother's  name  was  Hephzibah,"  said  Silas, 
"  and  my  little  sister  was  named  after  her." 

"Eh,  that's  a  hard  name,"  said  Dolly.  "I  partly 
think  it  isn't  a  christened  name." 

"  It's  a  Bible  name,"  said  Silas,  old  ideas  recurring. 

"  Then  I've  no  call  to  speak  again'  it,"  said  Dolly, 
rather  startled  by  Silas's  knowledge  on  this  head; 
"  but  you  see  I'm  no  scholard,  and  I'm  slow  at  catch- 
ing the  words.  My  husband  says  I'm  allays  like  as 
if  I  was  putting  the  haft  for  the  handle — that's  what 


184  SILAS  MARNER. 

he  says — for  he's  very  sharp,  God  help  him.  But  it 
was  awk'ard  calling  your  little  sister  by  such  a  hard 
name,  when  you'd  got  nothing  big  to  say,  like — wasn't 
it,  Master  Marner?" 

"  We  called  her  Eppie,"  said  Silas. 

"Well,  if  it  was  noways  wrong  to  shorten  the  name, 
it  'ud  be  a  deal  handier.  And  so  I'll  go  now,  Master 
Marner,  and  I'll  speak  about  the  christening  afore 
dark ;  and  I  wish  you  the  best  o'  luck,  and  it's  my 
belief  as  it'll  come  to  you,  if  you  do  what's  right  by 
the  orphan  child ; — and  there's  the  'noculation  to  be 
seen  to ;  and  as  to  washing  its  bits  o'  things,  you  need 
look  to  nobody  but  me,  for  I  can  do  'em  wi'  one  hand 
when  I've  got  my  suds  about.  Eh,  the  blessed  angil! 
You'll  let  me  bring  my  Aaron  one  o'  these  days,  and 
he'll  show  her  his  little  cart  as  his  father's  made  for 
him,  and  the  black-and-white  pup  as  he's  got  a-rear- 
ing." 

Baby  was  christened,  the  rector  deciding  that  a 
double  baptism  was  the  lesser  risk  to  incur;  and  on 
this  occasion  Silas,  making  himself  as  clean  and  tidy 
as  he  could,  appeared  for  the  first  time  within  the 
church,  and  shared  in  the  observances  held  sacred  by 
his  neighbours.  He  was  quite  unable,  by  means  of 
anything  he  heard  or  saw,  to  identify  the  Eaveloe  re- 
ligion with  his  old  faith :  if  he  could  at  any  time  in 
his  previous  life  have  done  so,  it  must  have  been  by 
the  aid  of  a  strong  feeling  ready  to  vibrate  with  sym- 
pathy, rather  than  by  a  comparison  of  phrases  and 
ideas ;  and  now  for  long  years  that  feeling  had  been 
dormant.  He  had  no  distinct  idea  about  the  baptism 
and  the  church-going,  except  that  Dolly  had  said  it 


SILAS  MARNER.  185 

was  for  the  good  of  the  child ;  and  in  this  way,  as  the 
weeks  grew  to  months,  the  child  created  fresh  and 
fresh  links  between  his  life  and  the  lives  from  which 
he  had  hitherto  shrunk  continually  into  narrower  iso- 
lation. Unlike  the  gold  which  needed  nothing,  and 
must  be  worshipped  in  close-locked  solitude — which 
was  hidden  away  from  the  daylight,  was  deaf  to  the 
song  of  birds,  and  started  to  no  human  tones — Eppie 
was  a  creature  of  endless  claims  and  ever-growing  de- 
sires, seeking  and  loving  sunshine,  and  living  sounds, 
and  living  movements ;  making  trial  of  everything, 
with  trust  in  new  joy,  and  stirring  the  human  kind- 
ness in  all  eyes  that  looked  on  her.  The  gold  had 
kept  his  thoughts  in  an  ever-repeated  circle,  leading 
to  nothing  beyond  itself;  but  Eppie  was  an  object  com- 
pacted of  changes  and  hopes  that  forced  his  thoughts 
onward,  and  carried  them  far  away  from  their  old 
eager  pacing  towards  the  same  blank  limit — carried 
them  away  to  the  new  things  that  would  come  with 
the  coming  years,  when  Eppie  would  have  learned  to 
understand  how  her  father  Silas  cared  for  her;  and 
made  him  look  for  images  of  that  time  in  the  ties  and 
charities  that  bound  together  the  families  of  his  neigh- 
bours. The  gold  had  asked  that  he  should  sit  weav- 
ing longer  and  longer,  deafened  and  blinded  more  and 
more  to  all  things  except  the  monotony  of  his  loom 
and  the  repetition  of  his  web ;  but  Eppie  called  him 
away  from  his  weaving,  and  made  him  think  all  its 
pauses  a  holiday,  reawakening  his  senses  with  her 
fresh  life,  even  to  the  old  winter-flies  that  came  crawl- 
ing forth  in  the  early  spring  sunshine,  and  warming 
him  into  joy  because  she  had  joy. 


186  SILAS  MARKER. 

And  when  the  sunshine  grew  strong  and  lasting, 
so  that  the  buttercups  were  thick  in  the  meadows, 
Silas  might  be  seen  in  the  sunny  mid-day,  or  in  the 
late  afternoon  when  the  shadows  were  lengthening 
under  the  hedgerows,  strolling  out  with  uncovered 
head  to  carry  Eppie  beyond  the  Stone-pits  to  where 
the  flowers  grew,  till  they  reached  some  favourite 
bank  where  he  could  sit  down,  while  Eppie  toddled 
to  pluck  the  flowers,  and  make  remarks  to  the  winged 
things  that  murmured  happily  above  the  bright  petals, 
calling  "  Dad-dad's"  attention  continually  by  bringing 
him  the  flowers.  Then  she  would  turn  her  ear  to 
some  sudden  bird-note,  and  Silas  learned  to  please  her 
by  making  signs  of  hushed  stillness,  that  they  might 
listen  for  the  note  to  come  again:  so  that  when  it 
came,  she  set  up  her  small  back  and  laughed  with 
gurgling  triumph.  Sitting  on  the  banks  in  this  way, 
Silas  began  to  look  for  the  once  familiar  herbs  again ; 
and  as  the  leaves,  with  their  unchanged  outline  and 
markings,  lay  on  his  palm,  there  was  a  sense  of  crowd- 
ing remembrances  from  which  he  turned  away  timid- 
ly, taking  refuge  in  Eppie's  little  world,  "that  lay  light- 
ly on  his  enfeebled  spirit. 

As  the  child's  mind  was  growing  into  knowledge, 
his  mind  was  growing  into  memory :  as  her  life  un- 
folded, his  soul,  long  stupefied  in  a  cold  narrow  prison, 
was  unfolding  too,  and  trembling  gradually  into  full 
consciousness. 

It  was  an  influence  which  must  gather  force  with 
every  new  year:  the  tones  that  stirred  Silas's  heart 
grew  articulate,  and  called  for  more  distinct  answers ; 
shapes  and  sounds  grew  clearer  for  Eppie's  eyes  and 


SILAS  MARNER.  187 

ears,  and  there  was  more  that  "  Dad-dad"  was  imper- 
atively required  to  notice  and  account  for.  Also,  by 
the  time  Eppie  was  three  years  old,  she  developed  a 
fine  capacity  for  mischief,  and  for  devising  ingenious 
ways  of  being  troublesome,  which  found  much  exer- 
cise, not  only  for  Silas's  patience,  but  for  his  watch- 
fulness and  penetration.  Sorely  was  poor  Silas  puz- 
zled on  such  occasions  by  the  incompatible  demands 
of  love.  Dolly  Winthrop  told  him  punishment  was 
good  for  Eppie,  and  that,  as  for  rearing  a  child  with- 
out making  it  tingle  a  little  in  soft  and  safe  places  now 
and  then,  it  was  not  to  be  done. 

"To  be  sure,  there's  another  thing  you  might  do, 
Master  Marner,"  added  Dolly,  meditatively:  "you 
might  shut  her  up  once  i'  the  coal-hole.  That  was 
what  I  did  wi'  Aaron ;  for  I  was  that  silly  wi'  the 
youngest  lad,  as  I  could  never  bear  to  smack  him. 
Not  as  I  could  find  i'  my  heart  to  let  him  stay  i'  the 
coal-hole  more  nor  a  minute,  but  it  was  enough  to 
colly  him  all  over,  so  as  he  must  be  new  washed  and 
dressed,  and  it  was  as  good  as  a  rod  to  him — that  was. 
But  I  put  it  upo'  your  conscience,  Master  Marner,  as 
there's  one  of  'em  you  must  choose — ayther  smacking 
or  the  coal-hole— else  she'll  get  so  masterful,  there'll 
be  no  holding  her." 

Silas  was  impressed  with  the  melancholy  truth  of 
this  last  remark ;  but  his  force  of  mind  failed  before 
the  only  two  penal  methods  open  to  him,  not  only 
because  it  was  painful  to  him  to  hurt  Eppie,  but  be- 
cause he  trembled  at  a  moment's  contention  with  her, 
lest  she  should  love  him  the  less  for  it.  Let  even  an 
affectionate  Goliath  get  himself  tied  to  a  small  ten- 


188  SILAS  MARNER. 

der  thing,  dreading  to  hurt  it  by  pulling,  and  dread- 
ing still  more  to  snap  the  cord,  and  which  of  the  two, 
pray,  will  be  master?  It  was  clear  that  Eppie,  with 
her  short  toddling  steps,  must  lead  father  Silas  a  pret- 
ty dance  on  any  fine  morning  when  circumstances  fa- 
voured mischief. 

For  example.  He  had  wisely  chosen  a  broad  strip 
of  linen  as  a  means  of  fastening  her  to  his  loom  when 
he  was  busy :  it  made  a  broad  belt  round  her  waist> 
and  was  long  enough  to  allow  of  her  reaching  the 
truckle-bed  and  sitting  down  on  it,  but  not  long 
enough  for  her  to  attempt  any  dangerous  climbing. 
One  bright  summer's  morning  Silas  had  been  more 
engrossed  than  usual  in  "  setting  up"  a  new  piece  of 
work,  an  occasion  on  which  his  scissors  were  in  requi- 
sition. These  scissors,  owing  to  an  especial  warning  of 
Dolly's,  had  been  kept  carefully  out  of  Eppie's  reach ; 
but  the  click  of  them  had  had  a  peculiar  attraction  for 
her  ear,  and,  watching  the  results  of  that  click,  she  had 
derived  the  philosophic  lesson  that  the  same  cause 
would  produce  the  same  effect.  Silas  had  seated  him- 
self in  his  loom,  and  the  noise  of  weaving  had  be- 
gun; but  he  had  left  his  scissors  on  a  ledge  which 
Eppie's  arm  was  long  enough  to  reach ;  and  now,  like 
a  small  mouse,  watching  her  opportunity,  she  stole 
quietly  from  her  corner,  secured  the  scissors,  and  tod- 
dled to  the  bed  again,  setting  up  her  back  as  a  mode 
of  concealing  the  fact.  She  had  a  distinct  intention 
as  to  the  use  of  the  scissors ;  and  having  cut  the  linen 
strip  in  a  jagged  but  effectual  manner,  in  two  moments 
she  had  run  out  at  the  open  door  where  the  sunshine 
was  inviting  her,  while  poor  Silas  believed  her  to  be 


SILAS  MAKNEK.  189 

a  better  child  than  usual.  It  was  not  until  he  hap- 
pened to  need  his  scissors  that  the  terrible  fact  burst 
upon  him ;  Eppie  had  run  out  by  herself — had  per- 
haps fallen  into  the  Stone-pit  Silas,  shaken  by  the 
worst  fear  that  could  have  befallen  him,  rushed  out, 
calling  "  Eppie  1"  and  ran  eagerly  about  the  unen- 
closed space,  exploring  the  dry  cavities  into  which 
she  might  have  fallen,  and  then  gazing  with  question- 
ing dread  at  the  smooth  red  surface  of  the  water.  The 
cold  drops  stood  on  his  brow.  How  long  had  she 
been  out  ?  There  was  one  hope — that  she  had  crept 
through  the  stile  and  got  into  the  fields  where  he  ha- 
bitually took  her  to  stroll.  But  the  grass  was  high  in 
the  meadow,  and  there  was  no  descrying  her,  if  she 
were  there,  except  by  a  close  search  that  would  be 
a  trespass  on  Mr.  Osgood's  crop.  Still,  that  misde- 
meanour must  be  committed;  and  poor  Silas,  after 
peering  all  round  the  hedgerows,  traversed  the  grass, 
beginning  with  perturbed  vision  to  see  Eppie  behind 
every  group  of  red  sorrel,  and  to  see  her  moving  al- 
ways farther  off  as  he  approached.  The  meadow  was 
searched  in  vain;  and  he  got  over  the  stile  into  the 
next  field,  looking  with  dying  hope  towards  a  small 
pond  which  was  now  reduced  to  its  summer  shallow- 
ness, so  as  to  leave  a  wide  margin  of  good  adhesive 
mud.  Here,  however,  sat  Eppie,  discoursing  cheer- 
fully to  her  own  small  boot,  which  she  was  using  as 
a  bucket  to  convey  the  water  into  a  deep  hoof-mark, 
while  her  little  naked  foot  was  planted  comfortably 
on  a  cushion  of  olive-green  mud.  A  red-headed  calf 
was  observing  her  with  alarmed  doubt  through  the 
opposite  hedge. 


190  SILAS  MARKER. 

Here  was  clearly  a  case  of  aberration  in  a  christen- 
ed child  which  demanded  severe  treatment ;  but  Silas, 
overcome  with  convulsive  joy  at  finding  his  treasure 
again,  could  do  nothing  but  snatch  her  up,  and  cover 
her  with  half-sobbing  kisses.  It  was  not  until  he  had 
carried  her  home,  and  had  begun  to  think  of  the  nec- 
essary washing,  that  he  recollected  the  need  that  he 
should  punish  Eppie,  and  "make  her  remember." 
The  idea  that  she  might  run  away  again  and  come  to 
harm,  gave  him  unusual  resolution,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  determined  to  try  the  coal-hole — a  small  closet 
near  the  hearth. 

"Naughty,  naughty  Eppie,"  he  suddenly  began, 
holding  her  on  his  knee,  and  pointing  to  her  muddy 
feet  and  clothes — "  naughty  to  cut  with  the  scissors, 
and  run  away.  Eppie  must  go  into  the  coal-hole  for 
being  naughty.    Daddy  must  put  her  in  the  coal-hole." 

He  half  expected  that  this  would  be  shock  enough, 
and  that  Eppie  would  begin  to  cry.  But  instead  of 
that,  she  began  to  shake  herself  on  his  knee,  as  if  the 
proposition  opened  a  pleasing  novelty.  Seeing  that 
he  must  proceed  to  extremities,  he  put  her  into  the 
coal-hole,  and  held  the  door  closed,  with  a  trembling 
sense  that  he  was  using  a  strong  measure.  For  a  mo- 
ment there  was  silence,  but  then  came  a  little  cry: 
"  Opy,  opy !"  and  Silas  let  her  out  again,  saying,  "Now 
Eppie  'ull  never  be  naughty  again,  else  she  must  go 
in  the  coal-hole — a  black  naughty  place." 

The  weaving  must  stand  still  a  long  while  this 
morning,  for  now  Eppie  must  be  washed  and  have 
clean  clothes  on;  but  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  this 
punishment  would  have  a  lasting  effect,  and  save  time 


SILAS  MARNER.  191 

in  future — though,  perhaps,  it  would  have  been  better 
if  Eppie  had. cried  more. 

In  half  an  hour  she  was  clean  again,  and  Silas  hav- 
ing turned  his  back  to  see  what  he  could  do  with  the 
linen  band,  threw  it  down  again  with  the  reflection 
that  Eppie  would  be  good  without  fastening  for  the 
rest  of  the  morning.  He  turned  round  again,  and  was 
going  to  place  her  in  her  little  chair  near  the  loom, 
when  she  peeped  out  at  him  with  black  face  and  hands 
again,  and  said,  "  Eppie  in  de  toal-hole !" 

This  total  failure  of  the  coal-hole  discipline  shook 
Silas's  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  punishment.  "  She'd 
take  it  all  for  fun,"  he  observed  to  Dolly,  "  if  I  didn't 
hurt  her,  and  that  I  can't  do,  Mrs.  Winthrop.  If  she 
makes  me  a  bit  of  trouble,  I  can  bear  it.  And  she's 
got  no  tricks  but  what  she'll  grow  out  of." 

"Well,  that's  partly  true,  Master  Marner,"  said 
Dolly,  sympathetically ;  "  and  if  you  can't  bring  your 
mind  to  frighten  her  off  touching  things,  you  must  do 
what  you  can  to  keep  'em  out  of  her  way.  That's 
what  I  do  wi'  the  pups  as  the  lads  are  allays  a-rearing. 
They  will  worry  and  gnaw — worry  and  gnaw  they 
will,  if  it  was  one's  Sunday  cap  as  hung  anywhere  so 
as  they  could  drag  it.  They  know  no  difference,  God 
help  'em :  it's  the  pushing  o'  the  teeth  as  sets  them  on, 
that's  what  it  is." 

So  Eppie  was  reared  without  punishment,  the  bur- 
den of  her  misdeeds  being  borne  vicariously  by  father 
Silas.  The  stone-hut  was  made  a  soft  nest  for  her, 
lined  with  downy  patience :  and  also  in  the  world  that 
lay  beyond  the  stone-hut  for  her,  she  knew  nothing  of 
frowns  and  denials. 


192  SILAS  MAENER. 

Notwithstanding  the  difficulty  of  carrying  her  and 
his  yarn  or  linen  at  the  same  time,  Silas  took  her  with 
him  in  most  of  his  journeys  to  the  farm-houses,  un- 
willing to  leave  her  behind  at  Dolly  Winthrop's,  who 
was  always  ready  to  take  care  of  her ;  and  little  curly- 
headed  Eppie,  the  weaver's  child,  became  an  object  of 
interest  at  several  out-lying  homesteads,  as  well  as  in 
the  village.  Hitherto  he  had  been  treated  very  much 
as  if  he  had  been  a  useful  gnome  or  brownie — a  queer 
and  unaccountable  creature,  who  must  necessarily  be 
looked  at  with  wondering  curiosity  and  repulsion,  and 
with  whom  one  would  be  glad  to  make  all  greetings 
and  bargains  as  brief  as  possible,  but  who  must  be 
dealt  with  in  a  propitiatory  way,  and  occasionally 
have  a  present  of  pork  or  garden-stuff  to  carry  home 
with  him,  seeing  that  without  him  there  was  no  get- 
ting the  yarn  woven.  But  now  Silas  met  with  open 
smiling  faces  and  cheerful  questioning,  as  a  person 
whose  satisfactions  and  difficulties  could  be  under- 
stood. Everywhere  he  must  sit  a  little  and  talk  about 
the  child,  and  words  of  interest  were  always  ready  for 
him :  "  Ah,  Master  Marner,  you'll  be  lucky  if  she  takes 
the  measles  soon  and  easy !" — or,  "  Why,  there  isn't 
many  lone  men  'ud  ha'  been  wishing  to  take  up  with 
a  little  un  like  that :  but  I  reckon  the  weaving  makes 
you  handier  than  men  as  do  out-door  work — you're 
partly  as  handy  as  a  woman,  for  weaving  comes  next 
to  spinning."  Elderly  masters  and  mistresses,  seated 
observantly  in  large  kitchen  arm-chairs,  shook  their 
heads  over  the  difficulties  attendant  on  rearing  chil- 
dren, felt  Eppie's  round  arms  and  legs,  and  pronounced 
them  remarkably  firm,  and  told  Silas  that,  if  she  turn- 


SILAS  MARNER,  193 

ed  out  well  (which,  however,  there  was  no  telling),  it 
would  be  a  fine  thing  for  him  to  have  a  steady  lass  to 
do  for  him  when  he  got  helpless.  Servant  maidens 
were  fond  of  carrying  her  out  to  look  at  the  hens  and 
chickens,  or  to  see  if  any  cherries  could  be  shaken 
down  in  the  orchard ;  and  the  small  boys  and  girls 
approached  her  slowly,  with  cautious  movement  and 
steady  gaze,  like  little  dogs  face  to  face  with  one  of 
their  own  kind,  till  attraction  had  reached  the  point 
at  which  the  soft  lips  were  put  out  for  a  kiss.  No 
child  was  afraid  of  approaching  Silas  when  Eppie  was 
near  him ;  there  was  no  repulsion  around  him  now, 
either  for  young  or  old ;  for  the  little  child  had  come  / 
to  link  him  once  more  withjhe.  whole  world.  There 
was  love  between  him  and  the  child  that  blent  them 
into  one,  and  there  was  love  between  the  child  and  the 
world,  from  men  and  women  with  parental  looks  and 
tones  to  the  red  lady -birds  and  the  round  pebbles. 

Silas  began  now  to  think  of  Raveloe  life  entirely  in 
relation  to  Eppie :  she  must  have  everything  that 
was  a  good  in  Raveloe ;  and  he  listened  docilely,  that 
he  might  come  to  understand  better  what  this  life 
was,  from  which,  for  fifteen  years,  he  had  stood  aloof 
as  from  a  strange  thing  with  which  he  could  have  no 
communion :  as  some  man  who  has  a  precious  plant, 
to  which  he  would  give  a  nurturing  home  in  a  new 
soil,  thinks  of  the  rain  and  sunshine,  and  all  influences, 
in  relation  to  his  nursling,  and  asks  industriously  for 
all  knowledge  that  will  help  him  to  satisfy  the  wants 
of  the  searching  roots,  or  to  guard  leaf  and  bud  from 
invading  harm.  The  disposition  to  hoard  had  been 
utterly  crushed  at  the  very  first  by  the  loss  of  his 

I 


194  SILAS  MARNEK. 

long -stored  gold:  the  coins  he  earned  afterwards 
seemed  as  irrelevant  as  stones  brought  to  complete  a 
house  suddenly  buried  by  an  earthquake ;  the  sense 
of  bereavement  was  too  heavy  upon  him  for  the  old 
thrill  of  satisfaction  to  arise  again  at  the  touch  of  the 
newly-earned  coin.  And  now  something  had  come 
to  replace  his  hoard  which  gave  a  growing  purpose 
to  the  earnings,  drawing  his  hope  and  joy  continually 
onward  beyond  the  money. 

In  old  days  there  were  angels  who  came  and  took 
men  by  the  hand,  and  led  them  away  from  the  city  of 
destruction.  We  see  no  white-winged  angels  now. 
But  yet  men  are  led  away  from  threatening  destruc- 
tion :  a  hand  is  put  into  theirs,  which  leads  them  forth 
gently  towards  a  calm  and  bright  land,  so  that  they 
look  no  more  backward;  and  the  hand  may  be  a  little 
child's. 


SILAS  MARNER.  195 


CHAPTER  XV. 

There  was  one  person,  as  you  will  believe,  who 
watched  with  keener  though  more  hidden  interest 
than  any  other,  the  prosperous  growth  of  Eppie  un- 
der the  weaver's  care.  He  dared  not  do  anything 
that  would  imply  a  stronger  interest  in  a  poor  man's 
adopted  child  than  could  be  expected  from  the  kind- 
liness of  the  young  Squire,  when  a  chance  meeting 
suggested  a  little  present  to  a  simple  old  fellow  whom 
others  noticed  with  good  will;  but  he  told  himself 
that  the  time  would  come  when  he  might  do  some- 
thing towards  furthering  the  welfare  of  his  daughter 
without  incurring  suspicions.  Was  he  very  uneasy 
in  the  mean  time  at  his  inability  to  give  his  daughter 
her  birthright?  I  cannol._gay  that  he  was.  The 
child  was  being  taken  care  of,  and  would  very  likely 
be  happy,  as  people  in  humble  stations  often  were — 
happier,  perhaps,  than  those  who  are  brought  up  in 
luxury. 

That  famous  ring  that  pricked  its  owner  when  he 
forgot  duty  and  followed  desire — I  wonder  if  it  prick- 
ed very  hard  when  he  set  out  on  the  chase,  or  wheth- 
er it  pricked  but  lightly  then,  and  only  pierced  to  the 
quick  when  the  chase  had  long  been  ended,  and  hope, 
folding  her  wings,  looked  backward  and  became  re- 
gret? 

Godfrey  Cass's  cheek  and  eye  were  brighter  than 


196  SILAS  MARKER. 

ever  now.  He  was  so  undivided  in  his  aims  that  he 
seemed  like  a  man  of  firmness.  No  Dunsey  had  come 
back:  people  had  made  up  their  minds  that  he  was 
gone  for  a  soldier,  or  gone  "  out  of  the  country,"  and 
no  one  cared  to  be  specific  in  their  inquiries  on  a  sub- 
ject delicate  to  a  respectable  family.  Godfrey  had 
npqg^  tr>  gPA  t.TiP  sLn/ln^r  nf  Dunsey  across  his  path ; 
and  the  path  now  lay  straight  forward  to  the  accom- 
plishment nf  his  hpstj  longest-cherished  wishes.  Ev- 
erybody said  Mr.  Godfrey  had  taken  the  right  turn ; 
and  it  was  pretty  clear  what  would  be  the  end  of 
things,  for  there  were  ,not  many  days  in  the  week 
that  he  was  not  seen  riding  to  the  Warrens.  Godfrey 
himself,  when  he  was  asked  jocosely  if  the  day  had 
been  fixed,  smiled  with  the  pleasant  consciousness  of 
a  lover  who  could  say  "yes,"  if  he  liked.  Hgjelt  a 
reJforjned  man,  delivered  from  temptation;  and  the 
vigion  ofjtis  future  life  seemed  to  him  as  a  promised 
land:- fox,  which  ho  haxLjiq^cause  to  fight"  leiar 
himself  with  all  his  happiness  centred  on  his  own 
hearth,  where  Nancy  would  smile  on  him  as  he  play- 
ed^withjhe  children^ 

And  that  other  child— not  on  the  hearth — he  would 
not  forget  it ;  he  would  see  that  it  was  well  provided 
for.     That  was  a  father's  duty. 


PART   II. 


SILAS  MARNER.  199 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

It  was  a  bright  autumn  Sunday,  sixteen  years  after 
Silas  Marner  had  found  his  new  treasure  on  the  hearth. 
The  bells  of  the  old  Raveloe  church  were  ringing  the 
cheerful  peal  which  told  that  the  morning  service  was 
ended ;  and  out  of  the  arched  doorway  in  the  tower 
came  slowly,  retarded  by  friendly  greetings  and  ques- 
tions, the  richer  parishioners  who  had  chosen  this 
bright  Sunday  morning  as  eligible  for  church-going. 
It  was  the  rural  fashion  of  that  time  for  the  more  im- 
portant members  of  the  congregation  to  depart  first, 
while  their  humbler  neighbours  waited  and  looked  on, 
stroking  their  bent  heads  or  dropping  their  curtsies  to 
any  large  ratepayer  who  turned  to  notice  them. 

Foremost  among  these  advancing  groups  of  well- 
clad  people  there  are  some  whom  we  shall  recognise, 
in  spite  of  Time,  who  has  laid  his  hand  on  them  all. 
The  tall  blond  man  of  forty  is  not  much  changed  in 
feature  from  the  Godfrey  Cass  of  six-and-twenty :  he 
is  only  fuller  in  flesh,  and  has  only  lost  the  indefinable 
look  of  youth — a  loss  which  is  marked  even  when  the 
eye  is  undulled  and  the  wrinkles  are  not  yet  come. 
Perhaps  the  pretty  woman,  not  much  younger  than 
he,  who  is  leaning  on  his  arm,  is  more  changed  than 
her  husband :  the  lovely  bloom  that  used  to  be  always 
on  her  cheek  now  comes  but  fitfully  with  the  fresh 
morning  air  or  with  some  strong  surprise ;  yet  to  all 


200  SILAS  MARNER. 

who  love  human  faces  best  for  what  they  tell  of  human 
experience,  Nancy's  beauty  has  a  heightened  interest. 
Often  the  soul  is  ripened  into  fuller  goodness  while 
age  has  spread  an  ugly  film,  so  that  mere  glances  can 
never  divine  the  preciousness  of  the  fruit.  But  the 
years  have  not  been  so  cruel  to  Nancy.  The  firm  yet 
placid  mouth,  the  clear  veracious  glance  of  the  brown 
eyes,  speak  now  of  a  nature  that  has  been  tested  and 
has  kept  its  highest  qualities ;  and  even  the  costume, 
with  its  dainty  neatness  and  purity,  has  more  signifi- 
cance now  the  coquetries  of  youth  can  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass  (any  higher  title  has 
died  away  from  Eaveloe  lips  since  the  old  Squire  was 
gathered  to  his  fathers,  and  his  inheritance  was  di- 
vided) have  turned  round  to  look  for  the  tall  aged 
man  and  the  plainly-dressed  woman  who  are  a  little 
behind — Nancy  having  observed  that  they  must  wait 
for  "Father  and  Priscilla" — and  now  they  all  turn 
into  a  narrower  path  leading  across  the  churchyard  to 
a  small  gate  opposite  the  Eed  House.  We  will  not 
follow  them  now ;  for  may  there  not  be  some  others 
in  this  departing  congregation  whom  we  should  like 
to  see  again — some  of  those  who  are  not  likely  to  be 
handsomely  clad,  and  whom  we  may  not  recognise  so 
easily  as  the  master  and  mistress  of  the  Eed  House  ? 

But  it  is  impossible  to  mistake  Silas  Marner.  His 
large  brown  eyes  seem  to  have  gathered  a  longer  vi- 
sion, as  is  the  way  with  eyes  that  have  been  short- 
sighted in  early  life,  and  they  have  a  less  vague,  a 
more  answering  look;  but  in  everything  else  one  sees 
signs  of  a  frame  much  enfeebled  by  the  lapse  of  the 


SILAS  MARKER.  201 

sixteen  years.  The  weaver's  bent  shoulders  and  white 
hair  give  him  almost  tfre  look  of  advanced  age,  though 
he  is  not  more  than  five-and-fifty ;  but  there  is  the 
freshest  blossom  of  youth  close  by  his  side — a  blonde 
dimpled  girl  of  eighteen,  who  has  vainly  tried  to  chas- 
tise her  curly  auburn  hair  into  smoothness  under  her 
brown  bonnet:  the  hair  ripples  as  obstinately  as  a 
brooklet  under  the  March  breeze,  and  the  little  ring- 
lets burst  away  from  the  restraining  comb  behind  and 
show  themselves  below  the  bonnet-crown.  Eppie 
cannot  help  being  rather  vexed  about  her  hair,  for 
there  is  no  other  girl  in  Eaveloe  who  has  hair  at  all 
like  it,  and  she  thinks  hair  ought  to  be  smooth.  She 
does  not  like  to  be  blameworthy  even  in  small  things : 
you  see  how  neatly  her  prayer-book  is  folded  in  her 
spotted  handkerchief. 

That  good-looking  young  fellow,  in  a  new  fustian 
suit,  who  walks  behind  her,  is  not  quite  sure  upon  the 
question  of  hair  in  the  abstract,  when  Eppie  puts  it  to 
him,  and  thinks  that  perhaps  straight  hair  is  the  best 
in  general,  but  he  doesn't  want  Eppie's  hair  to  be  dif- 
ferent. She  surely  divines  that  there  is  some  one  be- 
hind her  who  is  thinking  about  her  very  particularly, 
and  mustering  courage  to  come  to  her  side  as  soon  as 
they  are  out  in  the  lane,  else  why  should  she  look 
rather  shy,  and  take  care  not  to  turn  her  head  from 
her  father  Silas,  to  whom  she  keeps  murmuring  little 
sentences  as  to  who  was  at  church  and  who  was  not 
at  church,  and  how  pretty  the  red  mountain-ash  is 
over  the  Eectory  wall  ? 

"  I  wish  we  had  a  little  garden,  father,  with  double 
daisies  in,  like  Mrs.  Winthrop's,"  said  Eppie,  when 

12 


202  SILAS  MARSTER. 

they  were  out  in  the  lane ;  "  only  they  say  it  'ud  take 
a  deal  of  digging  and  bringing  fresh  soil — and  you 
couldn't  do  that,  could  you,  father?  Anyhow,  I 
shouldn't  like  you  to  do  it,  for  it  'ud  be  too  hard 
work  for  you." 

u  Yes,  I  could  do  it,  child,  if  you  want  a  bit  o'  gar- 
den :  these  long  evenings,  I  could  work  at  taking  in 
a  little  bit  o'  the  waste,  just  enough  for  a  root  or  two 
o'  flowers  for  you ;  and  again,  i'  the  morning,  I  could 
have  a  turn  wi'  the  spade  before  I  sat  down  to  the 
loom.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  as  you  wanted 
a  bit  o'  garden?" 

"/  can  dig  it  for  you,  Master  Marner,"  said  the 
young  man  in  fustian,  who  was  now  by  Eppie's  side, 
entering  into  the  conversation  without  the  trouble  of 
formalities.  "It'll  be  play  to  me  after  I've  done  my 
day's  work,  or  any  odd  bits  o'  time  when  the  work's 
slack.  And  I'll  bring  you  some  soil  from  Mr.  Cass's 
garden — he'll  let  me,  and  willing." 

"Eh,  Aaron,  my  lad,  are  you  there?"  said  Silas; 
"  I  wasn't  aware  of  you ;  for  when  Eppie's  talking  o' 
things,  I  see  nothing  but  what  she's  a-saying.  Well, 
if  you  could  help  me  with  the  digging,  we  might  get 
her  a  bit  o'  garden  all  the  sooner." 

"Then,  if  you  think  well  and  good,"  said  Aaron, 
"  I'll  come  to  the  Stone-pits  this  afternoon,  and  we'll 
settle  what  land's  to  be  taken  in,  and  I'll  get  up  an 
hour  earlier  i'  the  morning,  and  begin  on  it." 

"But  not  if  you  don't  promise  me  not  to  work  at 
the  hard  digging,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "For  I  shouldn't 
ha'  said  anything  about  it,"  she  added,  half-bashfully, 
half-roguishly,  "only  Mrs.  Winthrop  said  as  Aaron 
'ud  be  so  good,  and — " 


SILAS  MARNEK.  203 

11  And  you  might  ha'  known  it  without  mother  tell- 
ing you,"  said  Aaron.  "  And  Master  Marner  knows 
too,  I  hope,  as  I'm  able  and  willing  to  do  a  turn  o' 
work  for  him,  and  he  won't  do  me  the  unkindness  to 
anyways  take  it  out  o'  my  hands." 

"  There,  now,  father,  you  won't  work  in  it  till  it's 
all  easy,"  said  Eppie,  "  and  you  and  me  can  mark  out 
the  beds,  and  make  holes  and  plant  the  roots.  It'll 
be  a  deal  livelier  at  the  Stone-pits  when  we've  got 
some  flowers,  for  I  always  think  the  flowers  can  see 
us  and  know  what  we're  talking  about.  And  I'll  have 
a  bit  o'  rosemary,  and  bergamot,  and  thyme,  because 
they're  so  sweet-smelling;  but  there's  no  lavender  only 
in  the  gentlefolks'  gardens,  I  think." 

"  That's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  have  some," 
said  Aaron,  "for  I  can  bring  you  slips  of  anything; 
I'm  forced  to  cut  no  end  of  'em  when  I'm  gardening, 
and  throw  'em  away  mostly.  There's  a  big  bed  o' 
lavender  at  the  Eed  House :  the  missis  is  very  fond 
of  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Silas,  gravely,  "  so  as  you  don't  make 
free  for  us,  or  ask  for  anything  as  is  worth  much  at 
the  Eed  House ;  for  Mr.  Cass's  been  so  good  to  us,  and 
built  us  up  the  new  end  o'  the  cottage,  and  given  us 
beds  and  things,  as  I  couldn't  abide  to  be  imposin'  for 
garden-stuff  or  anything  else." 

"  No,  no,  there's  no  imposing,"  said  Aaron ;  "there's 
never  a  garden  in  all  the  parish  but  what  there's  end- 
less waste  in  it  for  want  o'  somebody  as  could  use 
everything  up.  It's  what  I  think  to  myself  some- 
times, as  there  need  nobody  run  short  o'  victuals  if 
the  land  was  made  the  most  on,  and  there  was  never 


204  SILAS  MARKER. 

a  morsel  but  what  could  find  its  way  to  a  mouth.  It 
sets  one  thinking  o'  that — gardening  does.  But  I 
must  go  back  now,  else  mother  'ull  be  in  trouble  as 
I  aren't  there." 

"  Bring  her  with  you  this  afternoon,  Aaron,"  said 
Eppie ;  "I  shouldn't  like  to  fix  about  the  garden,  and 
her  not  know  everything  from  the  first — should  you, 
father?" 

"Ay,  bring  her  if  you  can,  Aaron,"  said  Silas; 
"she's  sure  to  have  a  word  to  say  as'll  help  us  to  set 
things  on  their  right  end." 

Aaron  turned  back  up  the  village,  while  Silas  and 
Eppie  went  on  up  the  lonely  sheltered  lane. 

uO  daddy!"  she  began,  when  they  were  in  privacy, 
clasping  and  squeezing  Silas's  arm,  and  skipping  round 
to  give  him  an  energetic  kiss.  "My  little  old  daddy! 
I'm  so  glad.  I  don't  think  I  shall  want  anything  else 
when  we've  got  a  little  garden ;  and  I  knew  Aaron 
would  dig  it  for  us,"  she  went  on  with  roguish  tri- 
umph— "I  knew  that  very  well." 

"You're  a  deep  little  puss,  you  are,"  said  Silas,  with 
the  mild  passive  happiness  of  love-crowned  age  in  his 
face;  "but  you'll  make  yourself  fine  and  beholden  to 
Aaron." 

"  O  no,  I  shan't,"  said  Eppie,  laughing  and  frisking ; 
"he  likes  it." 

"  Come,  come,  let  me  carry  your  prayer-book,  else 
you'll  be  dropping  it,  jumping  i'  that  way." 

Eppie  was  now  aware  that  her  behaviour  was  un- 
der observation,  but  it  was  only  the  observation  of  a 
friendly  donkey,  browsing  with  a  log  fastened  to  his 
foot — a  meek  donkey,  not  scornfully  critical  of  human 


SILAS  MARKER.  205 

trivialities,  but  thankful  to  snare  in  them,  if  possible, 
by  getting  his  nose  scratched ;  and  Eppie  did  not  fail 
to  gratify  him  with  her  usual  notice,  though  it  was  at- 
tended with  the  inconvenience  of  his  following  them, 
painfully,  up  to  the  very  door  of  their  home. 

But  the  sound  of  a  sharp  bark  inside,  as  Eppie  put 
the  key  in  the  door,  modified  the  donkey's  views,  and 
he  limped  away  again  without  bidding.  The  sharp 
bark  was  the  sign  of  an  excited  welcome  that  was 
awaiting  them  from  a  knowing  brown  terrier,  who, 
after  dancing  at  their  legs  in  an  hysterical  manner, 
rushed  with  a  worrying  noise  at  a  tortoise-shell  kitten 
under  the  loom,  and  then  rushed  back  with  a  sharp 
bark  again,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  have  done  my  duty 
by  this  feeble  creature,  you  perceive ;"  while  the  lady- 
mother  of  the  kitten  sat  sunning  her  white  bosom  in 
the  window,  and  looked  round  with  a  sleepy  air  of  ex- 
pecting caresses,  though  she  was  not  going  to  take  any 
trouble  for  them.   . 

The  presence  of  this  happy  animal  life  was  not  the 
only  change  which  had  come  over  the  interior  of  the 
stone  cottage.  There  was  no  bed  now  in  the  living 
room,  and  the  small  space  was  well  filled  with  decent 
furniture,  all  bright  and  clean  enough  to  satisfy  Dolly 
Winthrop's  eye.  The  oaken  table  and  three-cornered 
oaken  chair  were  hardly  what  was  likely  to  be  seen 
in  so  poor  a  cottage :  they  had  come,  with  the  beds 
and  other  things,  from  the  Red  House ;  for  Mr.  God- 
frey Cass,  as  every  one  said  in  the  village,  did  very 
kindly  by  the  weaver ;  and  it  was  nothing  but  right  a 
man  should  be  looked  on  and  helped  by  those  who 
could  afford  it,  when  he  had  brought  up  an  orphan 


206  SILAS  MARNER. 

child,  and  been  father  and  mother  to  her — and  had 
lost  his  money  too,  so  as  he  had  nothing  but  what  he 
worked  for  week  by  week,  and  when  the  weaving  was 
going  down  too — for  there  was  less  and  less  flax  spun 
— and  Master  Marner  was  none  so  young.  Nobody 
was  jealous  of  the  weaver,  for  he  was  regarded  as  an 
exceptional  person,  whose  claims  on  neighbourly  help 
were  not  to  be  matched  in  Eaveloe.  Any  supersti- 
tion that  remained  concerning  him  had  taken  an  en- 
tirely new  colour ;  and  Mr.  Macey,  now  a  very  feeble 
old  man  of  fourscore  and  six,  never  seen  except  in  his 
chimney-corner  or  sitting  in  the  sunshine  at  his  door- 
sill,  was  of  opinion  that  when  a  man  had  done  what 
Silas  had  done  by  an  orphan  child,  it  was  a  sign  that 
his  money  would  come  to  light  again,  or  leastwise 
that  the  robber  would  be  made  to  answer  for  it — for, 
as  Mr.  Macey  observed  of  himself,  his  faculties  were  as 
strong  as  ever. 

Silas  sat  down  now  and  watched  Eppie  with  a  sat- 
isfied gaze  as  she  spread  the  clean  cloth,  and  set  on  it 
the  potato-pie,  warmed  up  slowly  in  a  safe  Sunday 
fashion,  by  being  put  into  a  dry  pot  over  a  slowly-dy- 
ing fire,  as  the  best  substitute  for  an  oven.  For  Silas 
would  not  consent  to  have  a  grate  and  oven  added  to 
his  conveniences :  he  loved  the  old  brick  hearth  as  he 
had  loved  his  brown  pot — and  was  it  not  there  when 
he  had  found  Eppie  ?  The  gods  of  the  hearth  exist 
for  us  still ;  and  let  all  new  faith  be  tolerant  of  that 
fetishism,  lest  it  bruise  its  own  roots. 

Silas  ate  his  dinner  more  silently  than  usual,  soon 
laying  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  watching  half- 
abstractedly  Eppie's  play  with  Snap  and  the  cat,  by 


SILAS  MARNEE.  207 

which  her  own  dining  was  made  rather  a  lengthy  bus- 
iness. Yet  it  was  a  sight  that  might  well  arrest  wan- 
dering thoughts :  Eppie,  with  the  rippling  radiance  of 
her  hair  and  the  whiteness  of  her  rounded  chin  and 
throat  set  off  by  the  dark-blue  cotton  gown,  laughing 
merrily  as  the  kitten  held  on  with  her  four  claws  to 
one  shoulder,  like  a  design  for  a  jug-handle,  while 
Snap  on  the  right  hand  and  Puss  on  the  other  put  up 
their  paws  towards  a  morsel  which  she  held  out  of  the 
reach  of  both — Snap  occasionally  desisting  in  order  to 
remonstrate  with  the  cat  by  a  cogent  worrying  growl 
on  fhe  greediness  and  futility  of  her  conduct ;  till  Ep- 
pie relented,  caressed  them  both,  and  divided  the  mor- 
sel between  them. 

But  at  last  Eppie,  glancing  at  the  clock,  checked  the 
play,  and  said,  "  0  daddy,  you're  wanting  to  go  into 
the  sunshine  to  smoke  your  pipe.  But  I  must  clear 
away  first,  so  as  the  house  may  be  tidy  when  god- 
mother comes.     I'll  make  haste — I  won't  be  long." 

Silas  had  taken  to  smoking  a  pipe  daily  during  the 
last  two  years,  having  been  strongly  urged  to  it  by  the 
sages  of  Eaveloe,  as  a  practice  "  good  for  the  fits ;" 
and  this  advice  was  sanctioned  by  Dr.  Kimble,  on  the 
ground  that  it  was  as  well  to  try  what  could  do  no 
harm — a  principle  which  was  made  to  answer  for  a 
great  deal  of  work  in  that  gentleman's  medical  prac- 
tice. Silas  did  not  highly  enjoy  smoking,  and  often 
wondered  how  his  neighbours  could  be  so  fond  of  it ; 
but  a  humble  sort  of  acquiescence  in  what  was  held  to 
be  good,  had  become  a  strong  habit  of  that  new  self 
which  had  been  developed  in  him  since  he  had  found 
Eppie  on  his  hearth :  it  had  been  the  only  clue  his  be- 


208  SILAS  MARKER. 

wildered  mind  could  hold  by  in  cherishing  this  young 
life  that  had  been  sent  to  him  out  of  the  darkness  into 
which  his  gold  had  departed.  By  seeking  what  was 
needful  for  Eppie,  by  sharing  the  effect  that  every- 
thing produced  on  her,  he  had  himself  come  to  appro- 
priate the  forms  of  custom  and  belief  which  were  the 
mould  ofKaveloe  life;  and  as,  with  reawakening  sen- 
sibilities, memory  also  reawakened,  he  had  begun  to 
ponder  over  the  elements  of  his  old  faith,  and  blend 
them  with  his  new  impressions,  till  he  recovered  a  con- 
sciousness of  unity  between  his  past  and  present.  The 
sense  of  presiding  goodness  and  the  human  trust  which 
come  with  all  pure  peace  and  joy,  had  given  him  a 
dim  impression  that  there  had  been  some  error,  some 
mistake,  which  had  thrown  that  dark  shadow  over  the 
days  of  his  best  years ;  and  as  it  grew  more  and  more 
easy  to  him  to  open  his  mind  to  Dolly  Winthrop,  he 
gradually  communicated  to  her  all  he  could  describe 
of  his  early  life.  The  communication  was  necessarily 
a  slow  and  difficult  process,  for  Silas's  meagre  power 
of  explanation  was  not  aided  by  any  readiness  of  in- 
terpretation in  Dolly,  whose  narrow  outward  experi- 
ence gave  her  no  key  to  strange  customs,  and  made 
every  novelty  a  source  of  wonder  that  arrested  them 
at  every  step  of  the  narrative.  It  was  only  by  frag- 
ments, and  at  intervals  which  left  Dolly  time  to  re- 
volve what  she  had  heard  till  it  acquired  some  famil- 
iarity for  her,  that  Silas  at  last  arrived  at  the  climax 
of  the  sad  story — the  drawing  of  lots,  and  its  false  tes- 
timony concerning  him ;  and  this  had  to  be  repeated 
in  several  interviews,  under  new  questions  on  her  part 
as  to  the  nature  of  this  plan  for  detecting  the  guilty 
and  clearing  the  innocent. 


SILAS  MARNER.  209 

"  And  yourn's  the  same  Bible,  you're  sure  o'  that, 
Master  Marner — the  Bible  as  you  brought  wi'  you 
from  that  country — it's  the  same  as  what  they've  got 
at  church,  and  what  Eppie's  a-learning  to  read  in  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas,  "  every  bit  the  same ;  and  there's 
drawing  o'  lots  in  the  Bible,  mind  you,"  he  added,  in 
a  lower  tone. 

"  0  dear,  dear,"  said  Dolly,  in  a  grieved  voice,  as  if 
she  were  hearing  an  unfavourable  report  of  a  sick 
man's  case.  She  was  silent  for  some  minutes ;  at  last 
she  said, 

"  There's  wise  folks,  happen,  as  knows  how  it  all 
is ;  the  parson  knows,  I'll  be  bound ;  but  it  takes  big 
words  to  tell  them  things,  and  such  as  poor  folks  can't 
make  much  out  on.  I  can  never  rightly  know  the 
meaning  o'  what  I  hear  at  church,  only  a  bit  here  and 
there,  but  I  know  it's  good  words — I  do.  But  what 
lies  upo'  your  mind — it's  this,  Master  Marner:  as,  if 
Them  above  had  done  the  right  thing  by  you,  They'd 
never  ha'  let  you  be  turned  out  for  a  wicked  thief 
when  you  was  innicent." 

"  Ah !"  said  Silas,  who  had  now  come  to  understand 
Dolly's  phraseology,  "that  was  what  fell  on  me  like 
as  if  it  had  been  red-hot  iron  ;  because,  you  see,  there 
was  nobody  as  cared  for  me  or  clave  to  me  above  nor 
below.  And  him  as  I'd  gone  out  and  in  wi'  for  ten 
year  and  more,  since  when  we  was  lads  and  went 
halves — mine  own  famil'ar  friend,  in  whom  I  trusted," 
had  lifted  up  his  heel  again'  me,  and  worked  to  ruin 
me." 

"Eh,  but  he  was  a  bad  un — I  can't  think  as  there's 
another  such,"  said  Dolly.     "But  I'm  o'ercome,  Mas- 


210  SILAS  MARNER. 

ter  Marner ;  I'm  like  as  if  I'd  waked  and  didn't  know 
whether  it  was  night  or  morning.  I  feel  somehow  as 
sure  as  I  do  when  I've  laid  something  up  though  I 
can't  justly  put  my  hand  on  it,  as  there  was  a  right  in 
what  happened  to  you,  if  one  could  but  make  it  out ; 
and  you'd  no  call  to  lose  heart  as  you  did.  But  we'll 
talk  on  it  again ;  for  sometimes  things  come  into  my 
head  when  I'm  leeching  or  poulticing,  or  such,  as  I 
could  never  think  on  when  I  was  sitting  still." 

Dolly  was  too  useful  a  woman  not  to  have  many 
opportunities  of  illumination  of  the  kind  she  alluded 
to,  and  she  was  not  long  before  she  recurred  to  the 
subject. 

"  Master  Marner,"  she  said,  one  day  that  she  came 
to  bring  home  Eppie's  washing,  "I've  been  sore  puz- 
zled for  a  good  bit  wi'  that  trouble  o'  yourn  and  the 
drawing  o'  lots ;  and  it  got  twisted  back'ards  and  for- 
'ards,  as  I  didn't  know  which  end  to  lay  hold  on.  But 
it  come  to  me  all  clear  like,  that  night  when  I  was  sit- 
ting up  wi'  poor  Bessy  Fawkes,  as  is  dead  and  left  her 
children  behind,  Grod  help  'em — it  come  to  me  as  clear 
as  daylight ;  but  whether  I've  got  hold  on  it  now,  or 
can  anyways  bring  it  to  my  tongue's  end,  that  I  don't 
know.  For  I've  often  a  deal  inside  me  as  '11  niver 
come  out;  and  for  what  you  talk  o'  your  folks  in  your 
old  country  niver  saying  prayers  by  heart  nor  saying 
'em  out  of  a  book,  they  must  be  wonderful  cliver ;  for 
if  I  didn't  know  '  Our  Father,'  and  little  bits  o'  good 
words  as  I  can  carry  out  o'  church  wi'  me,  I  might  down 
o'  my  knees  every  night  but  nothing  could  I  say." 

"  But  you  can  mostly  say  something  as  I  can  make 
sense  on,  Mrs.  Winthrop,"  said  Silas. 


SILAS  MARNER.  211 

"Well,  then,  Master  Marner,  it  come  to  me  summat 
like  this :  I  can  make  nothing  o'  the  drawing  o'  lots 
and  the  answer  coming  wrong;  it  'ud  mayhap  take  the 
parson  to  tell  that,  and  he  could  only  tell  us  i'  big 
words.  But  what  come  to  me  as  clear  as  the  daylight, 
it  was  when  I  was  troubling  over  poor  Bessy  Fawkes, 
and  it  allays  comes  into  my  head  when  I'm  sorry  for 
folks,  and  feel  as  I  can't  do  a  power  to  help  'em,  not 
if  I  was  to  get  up  i'  the  middle  o'  the  night — it  comes 
into  my  head  as  Them  above  has  got  a  deal  tenderer 
heart  nor  what  I've  got — for  I  can't  be  anyways  bet- 
ter nor  Them  as  made  me,  and  if  anything  looks  hard 
to  me,  it's  because  there's  things  I  don't  know  on ;  and 
for  the  matter  o'  that,  there  may  be  plenty  o'  things  I 
don't  know  on,  for  it's  little  as  I  know — that  it  is. 
And  so,  while  I  was  thinking  o'  that,  you  come  into 
my  mind,  Master  Marner,  and  it  all  come  pouring  in : 

if /felt  i'  my  inside  what  was  the  right  and  just 

thing  by  you,  and  them  as  prayed  and  drawed  the 
lots,  all  but  that  wicked  un,  if  they'd  ha'  done  the  right 
thing  by  you  if  they  could,  isn't  there  Them  as  was  at 
the  making  on  us,  and  knows  better  and  has  a  better 
will  ?  And  that's  all  as  ever  I  can  be  sure  on,  and 
everything  else  is  a  big  puzzle  to  me  when  I  think  on 
it.  For  there  was  the  fever  come  and  took  off  them 
as  were  full-growed,  and  left  the  helpless  children; 
and  there's  the  breaking  o'  limbs ;  and  them  as  'ud 
do  right  and  be  sober  have  to  suffer  by  them  as  are 
contrairy — eh,  there's  trouble  i'  this  world,  and  there's 
things  as  we  can  niver  make  out  the  rights  on.  And 
all  as  we've  got  to  do  is  to  trusten,  Master  Marner — 
to  do  the  right  thing  as  fur  as  we  know,  and  to  trust- 


212  SILAS  MARNEE. 

en.  For  if  us  as  knows  so  little  can  see  a  bit  o'  good 
and  rights,  we  may  be  sure  as  there's  a  good  and  a 
rights  bigger  nor  what  we  can  know — I  feel  it  i'  my 
own  inside  as  it  must  be  so.  And  if  you  could  but 
ha'  gone  on  trustening,  Master  Marner,  you  wouldn't 
ha'  run  away  from  your  fellow-creaturs  and  been  so 
lone." 

"  Ah,  but  that  'ud  ha'  been  hard,"  said  Silas,  in  an 
under  tone ;  "it  'ud  ha'  been  hard  to  trusten  then." 

"And  so  it  would,"  said  Dolly,  almost  with  com- 
punction; "them  things  are  easier  said  nor  done;  and 
I'm  partly  ashamed  o'  talking." 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  Silas,  "you're  i'  the  right,  Mrs. 
"Winthrop — you're  i'  the  right.  There's  good  i'  this 
world,  i'  spite  o'  the  trouble  and  the  wickedness.  That 
drawing  o'  the  lots  is  dark ;  but  the  child  was  sent  to 
me :  there's  dealings  with  us — there's  dealings." 

This  dialogue  took  place  in  Eppie's  earlier  years, 
when  Silas  had  to  part  with  her  for  two  hours  every 
day,  that  she  might  learn  to  read  at  the  dame  school, 
after  he  had  vainly  tried  himself  to  guide  her  in  that 
first  step  to  learning.  Now  that  she  was  grown  up, 
Silas  had  often  been  led,  in  those  moments  of  quiet 
outpouring  which  come  to  people  who  live  together 
in  perfect  love,  to  talk  with  her  too  of  the  past,  and 
how  and  why  he  had  lived  a  lonely  man  until  she 
had  been  sent  to  him.  For  it  would  have  been  im- 
possible for  him  to  hide  from  Eppie  that  she  was  not 
his  own  child :  even  if  the  most  delicate  reticence  on 
the  point  could  have  been  expected  from  Kaveloe 
gossips  in  her  presence,  her  own  questions  about  her 
mother  could  not  have  been  parried,  as  she  grew  up, 


SILAS  MARNER.  213 

without  that  complete  shrouding  of  the  past  which 
would  have  made  a  painful  barrier  between  their 
minds.  So  Eppie  had  long  known  how  her  mother 
had  died  on  the  snowy  ground,  and  how  she  herself 
had  been  found  on  the  hearth  by  father  Silas,  who  had 
taken  her  golden  curls  for  his  lost  guineas  brought 
back  to  him.  The  tender  and  peculiar  love  with  which 
Silas  had  reared  her  in  almost  inseparable  compan- 
ionship with  himself,  aided  by  the  seclusion  of  their 
dwelling,  had  preserved  her  from  the  lowering  influ- 
ences of  the  village  talk  and  habits,  and  had  kept  her 
mind  in  that  freshness  which  is  sometimes  falsely  sup- 
posed to  be  an  invariable  attribute  of  rusticity.  Per- 
fect love  has  a  breath  of  poetry  which  can  exalt  the 
relations  of  the  least  instructed  human  beings ;  and 
this  breath  of  poetry  had  surrounded  Eppie  from  the 
time  when  she  had  followed  the  bright  gleam  that 
beckoned  her  to  Silas's  hearth ;  so  that  it  is  not  sur- 
prising if,  in  other  things  besides  her  delicate  pretti- 
ness,  she  was  not  quite  a  common  village  maiden,  but 
had  a  touch  of  refinement  and  fervour  which  came 
from  no  other  teaching  than  that  of  tenderly-nurtured 
unvitiated  feeling.  She  was  too  childish  and  simple 
for  her  imagination  to  rove  into  questions  about  her 
unknown  father ;  for  a  long  while  it  did  not  even  oc- 
cur to  her  that  she  must  have  had  a  father ;  and  the 
first  time  that  the  idea  of  her  mother  having  had  a 
husband  presented  itself  to  her,  was  when  Silas  show- 
ed her  the  wedding-ring  which  had  been  taken  from 
the  wasted  finger,  and  had  been  carefully  preserved 
by  him  in  a  little  lackered  box  shaped  like  a  shoe. 
He  delivered  this  box  into  Eppie's  charge  when  she 


214  SILAS  MARKER. 

had  grown  up,  and  she  often  opened  it  to  look  at  the 
ring ;  but  still  she  thought  hardly  at  all  about  the  fa- 
ther of  whom  it  was  the  symbol.  Had  she  not  a  fa- 
ther very  close  to  her,  who  loved  her  better  than  any 
real  fathers  in  the  village  seemed  to  love  their  daugh- 
ters ?  On  the  contrary,  who  her  mother  was,  and  how 
she  came  to  die  in  that  forlornness,  were  questions  that 
often  pressed  on  Eppie's  mind.  Her  knowledge  of 
Mrs.  Winthrop,  who  was  her  nearest  friend  next  to 
Silas,  made  her  feel  that  a  mother  must  be  very  pre- 
cious; and  she  had  again  and  again  asked  Silas  to 
tell  her  how  her  mother  looked,  whom  she  was  like, 
and  how  he  had  found  her  against  the  furze  bush,  led 
towards  it  by  the  little  footsteps  and  the  outstretched 
arms.  The  furze  bush  was  there  still ;  and  this  after- 
noon, when  Eppie  came  out  with  Silas  into  the  sun- 
shine, it  was  the  first  object  that  arrested  her  eyes  and 
thoughts. 

"Father,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  gravity, 
which  sometimes  came  like  a  sadder,  slower  cadence 
across  her  playfulness,  "  we  shall  take  the  furze  bush 
into  the  garden;  it'll  come  into  the  corner,  and  just 
against  it  I'll  put  snowdrops  and  crocuses,  'cause 
Aaron  says  they  won't  die  out,  but  '11  always  get  more 
and  more." 

"Ah,  child,"  said  Silas,  always  ready  to  talk  when 
he  had  his  pipe  in  his  hand,  apparently  enjoying  the 
pauses  more  than  the  puffs,  "  it  wouldn't  do  to  leave 
out  the  furze  bush ;  and  there's  nothing  prettier,  to 
my  thinking,  when  it's  yallow  with  flowers.  But  it's 
just  come  into  my  head  what  we're  to  do  for  a  fence 
— mayhap  Aaron  can  help  us  to  a  thought;  but  a 


SILAS  MARNER.  215 

fence  we  must  have,  else  the  donkeys  and  things  'ull 
come  and  trample  everything  down.  And  fencing's 
hard  to  be  got  at,  by  what  I  can  make  out." 

"  0,  I'll  tell  you,  daddy,"  said  Eppie,  clasping  her 
hands  suddenly,  after  a  minute's  thought.  "There's 
lots  o'  loose  stones  about,  some  of  'em  not  big,  and  we 
might  lay  'em  atop  of  one  another  and  make  a  wall. 
You  and  me  could  carry  the  smallest,  and  Aaron  'ud 
carry  the  rest — I  know  he  would." 

"Eh,  my  precious  un,"  said  Silas,  "  there  isn't  enough 
stones  to  go  all  round ;  and  as  for  you  carrying,  why, 
wi'  your  little  arms  you  couldn't  carry  a  stone  bigger 
than  a  turnip.  You're  delicate  made,  my  dear,"  he 
added,  with  a  tender  intonation — "that's  what  Mrs. 
"Winthrop  says." 

"  0,  I'm  stronger  than  you  think,  daddy,"  said  Ep- 
pie; "and  if  there  wasn't  stones  enough  to  go  all 
round,  why  they'll  go  part  o'  the  way,  and  then  it'll 
be  easier  to  get  sticks  and  things  for  the  rest.  See 
here,  round  the  big  pit,  what  a  many  stones !" 

She  skipped  forward  to  the  pit,  meaning  to  lift  one 
of  the  stones  and  exhibit  her  strength,  but  she  started 
back  in  surprise. 

"  0,  father,  just  come  and  look  here,"  she  exclaim- 
ed— "  come  and  see  how  the  water's  gone  down  since 
yesterday.     "Why,  yesterday  the  pit  was  ever  so  full !" 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,"  said  Silas,  coming  to  her  side. 
"Why,  that's  the  draining  they've  begun  on,  since 
harvest,  i'  Mr.  Osgood's  fields,  I  reckon.  The  foreman 
said  to  me  the  other  day,  when  I  passed  by  'em,  '  Mas- 
ter Marner,'  he  said,  '  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we  lay 
your  bit  o'  waste  as  dry  as  a  bone.'     It  was  Mr.  God- 


216  SILAS  MARNEE. 

frey  Cass,  lie  said,  had  gone  into  the  draining:  he'd 
been  taking  these  fields  o'  Mr.  Osgood." 

"How  odd  it  '11  seem  to  have  the  old  pit  dried  up," 
said  Eppie,  turning  away,  and  stooping  to  lift  rather  a 
large  stone.  "  See,  daddy,  I  can  carry  this  quite  well," 
she  said,  going  along  with  much  energy  for  a  few 
steps,  but  presently  letting  it  fall. 

"  Ah,  you're  fine  and  strong,  arn't  you?"  said  Silas, 
while  Eppie  shook  her  aching  arms  and  laughed. 
"  Come,  come,  let  us  go  and  sit  down  on  the  bank 
against  the  stile  there,  and  have  no  more  lifting.  You 
might  hurt  yourself,  child.  You'd  need  have  some- 
body to  work  for  you — and  my  arm  isn't  over  strong." 

Silas  uttered  the  last  sentence  slowly,  as  if  it  im- 
plied more  than  met  the  ear;  and  Eppie,  when  they 
sat  down  on  the  bank,  nestled  close  to  his  side,  and, 
taking  hold  caressingly  of  the  arm  that  was  not  over 
strong,  held  it  on  her  lap,  while  Silas  puffed  again 
dutifully  at  the  pipe,  which  occupied  his  other  arm. 
An  ash  in  the  hedgerow  behind  made  a  fretted  screen 
from  the  sun,  and  threw  happy  playful  shadows  all 
about  them. 

"Father,"  said  Eppie,  very  gently,  after  they  had 
been  sitting  in  silence  a  little  while,  "  if  I  was  to  be 
married,  ought  I  to  be  married  with  my  mother's 
ring  ?" 

Silas  gave  an  almost  imperceptible  start,  though  the 
question  fell  in  with  the  under-current  of  thought  in 
his  own  mind,  and  then  said,  in  a  subdued  tone,  "Why, 
Eppie,  have  you  been  a-thinking  on  it?" 

"  Only  this  last  week,  father,"  said  Eppie,  ingenu- 
ously, "  since  Aaron  talked  to  me  about  it." 


SILAS  MARNEK.  217 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?"  said  Silas,  still  in  the  same 
subdued  way,  as  if  he  were  anxious  lest  he  should  fall 
into  the  slightest  tone  that  was  not  for  Eppie's  good. 

"  He  said  he  should  like  to  be  married,  because  he 
was  a-going  in  four-and-twenty,  and  had  got  a  deal  of 
gardening  work,  now  Mr.  Mott's  given  up;  and  he 
goes  twice  a-week  regular  to  Mr.  Cass's,  and  once  to 
Mr.  Osgood's,  and  they're  going  to  take  him  on  at  the 
Kectory." 

"And  who  is  it  as  he's  wanting  to  marry?"  said 
Silas,  with  rather  a  sad  smile. 

"Why,  me,  to  be  sure,  daddy,"  said  Eppie,  with 
dimpling  laughter,  kissing  her  father's  cheek ;  "  as  if 
he'd  want  to  marry  anybody  else !" 

"And  you  mean  to  have  him,  do  you?"  said  Silas. 

"  Yes,  some  time,"  said  Eppie,  "  I  don't  know  when. 
Everybody's  married  some  time,  Aaron  says.  But  I 
told  him  that  wasn't  true ;  for,  I  said,  look  at  father — 
he's  never  been  married." 

"  No,  child,"  said  Silas,  "  your  father  was  a  lone 
man  till  you  was  sent  to  him." 

"  But  you'll  never  be  lone  again,  father,"  said  Ep- 
pie, tenderly.  "  That  was  what  Aaron  said — '  I  could 
never  think  o'  taking  you  away  from  Master  Marner, 
Eppie.'  And  I  said,  '  It  'ud  be  no  use  if  you  did, 
Aaron.'  And  he  wants  us  all  to  live  together,  so  as 
you  needn't  work  a  bit,  father,  only  what's  for  your 
own  pleasure ;  and  he'd  be  as  good  as  a  son  to  you — 
that  was  what  he  said." 

"  And  should  you  like  that,  Eppie  ?"  said  Silas, 
looking  at  her. 

"  I  shouldn't  mind  it,  father,"  said  Eppie,  quite  sim- 
K 


218  SILAS  MARNER. 

ply.  "And  I  should  like  things  to  be  so  as  you 
needn't  work  much.  But  if  it  wasn't  for  that,  I'd 
sooner  things  didn't  change.  I'm  very  happy :  I  like 
Aaron  to  be  fond  of  me,  and  come  and  see  us  often, 
and  behave  pretty  to  you — he  always  does  behave 
pretty  to  you,  doesn't  he,  father  ?" 

"  Yes,  child,  nobody  could  behave  better,"  said  Si- 
las, emphatically.     "  He's  his  mother's  lad." 

"But  I  don't  want  any  change,"  said  Eppie.  "I 
should  like  to  go  on  a  long,  long  while,  just  as  we  are. 
Only  Aaron  does  want  a  change;  and  he  made  me 
cry  a  bit — only  a  bit — because  he  said  I  didn't  care 
for  him ;  for  if  I  cared  for  him  I  should  want  us  to  be 
married,  as  he  did." 

"Eh,  my  blessed  child,"  said  Silas,  laying  down  his 
pipe  as  if  it  were  useless  to  pretend  to  smoke  any  lon- 
ger, "you're  o'er  young  to  be  married.  We'll  ask 
Mrs.  Winthrop— we'll  ask  Aaron's  mother  what  she 
thinks :  if  there's  a  right  thing  to  do,  she'll  come  at  it. 
But  there's  this  to  be  thought  on,  Eppie :  things  will 
change,  whether  we  like  it  or  not ;  things  won't  go  on 
for  a  long  while  just  as  they  are  and  no  difference.  I 
shall  get  older  and  helplesser,  and  be  a  burthen  on 
you,  belike,  if  I  don't  go  away  from  you  altogether. 
Not  as  I  mean  you'd  think  me  a  burden — I  know 
you  wouldn't — but  it  'ud  be  hard  upon  you ;  and  when 
I  look  for'ard  to  that,  I  like  to  think  as  you'd  have 
somebody  else  besides  me  —  somebody  young  and 
strong,  as'll  outlast  your  own  life,  and  take  care  on 
you  to  the  end."  Silas  paused,  and,  resting  his  wrists 
on  his  knees,  lifted  his  hands  up  and  down  meditative- 
ly as  he  looked  on  the  ground. 


SILAS   MARNER.  219 

a  Then  would  you  like  me  to  be  married,  father  ?" 
said  Eppie,  with  a  little  trembling  in  her  voice. 

"  I'll  not  be  the  man  to  say  no,  Eppie,"  said  Silas, 
emphatically ;  "  but  we'll  ask  your  godmother.  She'll 
wish  the  right  thing  by  you  and  her  son  too." 

11  There  they  come  then,"  said  Eppie.  "  Let  us  go 
and  meet  'em.  0  the  pipe!  won't  you  have  it  lit 
again,  father?"  said  Eppie,  lifting  that  medicinal  ap- 
pliance from  the  ground. 

"Nay,  child,"  said  Silas,  "I've  done  enough  for  to- 
day. I  think,  mayhap,  a  little  of  it  does  me  more 
good  than  so  much  at  once." 


220  SILAS  MARNER. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

While  Silas  and  Eppie  were  seated  on  the  bank 
discoursing  in  the  fleckered  shade  of  the  ash-tree,  Miss 
Priscilla  Lammeter  was  resisting  her  sister's  argu- 
ments, that  it  would  be  better  to  stay  to  tea  at  the 
Red  House,  and  let  her  father  have  a  long  nap,  than 
drive  home  to  the  Warrens  so  soon  after  dinner.  The 
family  party  (of  four  only)  were  seated  round  the  ta- 
ble in  the  dark  wainscoted  parlour,  with  the  Sunday 
dessert  before  them,  of  fresh  filberts,  apples,  and  pears, 
duly  ornamented  with  leaves  by  Nancy's  own  hand 
before  the  bells  had  rung  for  church. 

A  great  change  has  come  over  the  dark  wainscoted 
parlour  since  we  saw  it  in  Godfrey's  bachelor  days, 
and  under  the  wifeless  reign  of  the  old  Squire.  Now 
all  is  polish,  on  which  no  yesterday's  dust  is  ever  al- 
lowed to  settle,  from  the  yard's  width  of  oaken  boards 
round  the  carpet,  to  the  old  Squire's  gun  and  whips 
and  walking-sticks,  ranged  on  the  stag's  antlers  above 
the  mantel-piece.  All  other  signs  of  sporting  and 
outdoor  occupation  Nancy  has  removed  to  another 
room ;  but  she  has  brought  into  the  Red  House  the 
habit  of  filial  reverence,  and  preserves  sacredly  in  a 
place  of  honour  these  relics  of  her  husband's  departed 
father.  The  tankards  are  on  the  side-table  still,  but 
the  bossed  silver  is  undimmed  by  handling,  and  there 


SILAS    MARNER.  221 

are  no  dregs  to  send  forth  unpleasant  suggestions :  the 
only  prevailing  scent  is  of  the  lavender  and  rose-leaves 
that  fill  the  vases  of  Derbyshire  spar.  All  is  purity 
and  order  in  this  once  dreary  room,  for,  fifteen  years 
ago,  it  was  entered  by  a  new  presiding  spirit. 

"  Now,  father,"  said  Nancy,  "  is  there  any  call  for 
you  to  go  home  to  tea?  Mayn't  you  just  as  well  stay 
with  us? — such  a  beautiful  evening  as  it's  likely  to 
be." 

The  old  gentleman  had  been  talking  with  Godfrey 
about  the  increasing  poor-rate  and  the  ruinous  times, 
and  had  not  heard  the  dialogue  between  his  daugh- 
ters. 

"My  dear,  you  must  ask  Priscilla,"  he  said,  in  the 
once  firm  voice,  now  become  rather  broken.  "  She 
manages  me  and  the  farm  too." 

"  And  reason  good  as  I  should  manage  you,  father," 
said  Priscilla,  "else  you'd  be  giving  yourself  your-, 
death  with  rheumatism.     And  as  for  the  farm,  if  any- 
thing turns  out  wrong,  as  it  can't  but  do  in  these 
times,  there's  nothing  kills  a  man  so  soon  as  having 
nobody  to  find  fault  with  but  himself.     It's  a  deal  theiyv/**^, 
best  way  o'  being  master,  to  let  somebody  else  do  the/ 
ordering,  and  keep  the  blaming  in  your  own  hands. 
It  'ud  save  many  a  man  a  stroke,  1  believe."    ^/ 
s     "  Well,  well,  my  dear,"  said  her  father,  with  a  quiet 
laugh, -ilXdidn't  say  you  don't  managelor  everybody's 
good." 

"  Then  manage  so  as  you  may  stay  tea,  Priscilla," 
said  Nancy,  putting  her  hand  on  her  sister's  arm  affec- 
tionately. "  Come  now;  and  we'll  go  round  the  gar- 
den while  father  has  his  nap." 


222  SILAS  MAKNER. 

"  My  dear  child,  he'll  have  a  beautiful  nap  in  the 
gig,  for  I  shall  drive.  And  as  for  staying  tea,  I  can't 
hear  of  it ;  for  there's  this  dairymaid,  now  she  knows 
she's  to  be  married,  turned  Michaelmas,  she'd  as  lieve 
pour  the  new  milk  into  the  pig- trough  as  into  the 
pans.  That's  the  way  with  'em  all:  it's  as  if  they 
thought  the  world  'ud  be  new-made  because  they're 
to  be  married.  So  come  and  let  me  put  my  bonnet 
on,  and  there'll  be  time  for  us  to  walk  round  the  gar- 
den while  the  horse  is  being  put  in." 

When  the  sisters  were  treading  the  neatly-swept 
garden-walks,  between  the  bright  turf  that  contrasted 
pleasantly  with  the  dark  cones  and  arches  and  wall- 
like hedges  of  yew,  Priscilla  said — 

"  I'm  as  glad  as  anything  at  your  husband's  making 
that  exchange  o'  land  with  cousin  Osgood,  and  begin- 
ning the  dairying.  It's  a  thousand  pities  you  didn't 
do  it  before ;  for  it'll  give  you  something  to  fill  your 
mind.  There's  nothing  like  a  dairy  if  folks  want  a  bit 
o'  worrit  to  make  the  days  pass.  For  as  for  rubbing- 
furniture,  when  you  can  once  see  your  face  in  a  table 
there's  nothing  else  to  look  for;  but  there's  always 
something  fresh  with  the  dairy ;  for  even  in  the  depths 
o'  winter  there's  some  pleasure  in  conquering  the  but- 
ter, and  making  it  come  whether  or  no.  My  dear," 
added  Priscilla,  pressing  her  sister's  hand  affectionate- 
ly as  they  walked  side  by  side,  "  you'll  never  be  low 
when  you've  got  a  dairy." 

"Ah,  Priscilla,"  said  Nancy,  returning  the  pressure 
with  a  grateful  glance  of  her  clear  eyes,  "  but  it  won't 
make  up  to  Godfrey :  a  dairy's  not  so  much  to  a  man. 
And  it's  only  what  he  cares  for  that  ever  makes  me 


SILAS  MAENER.  223 

low.  I'm  contented  with,  the  blessings  we  have,  if  he 
could  be  contented." 

"  It  drives  me  past  patience,"  said  Priscilla,  impet- 
uously, "that  way  o'  the  men — always  wanting  and 
wanting,  and  never  easy  with  what  they've  got :  they 
can't  sit  comfortable  in  their  chairs  when  they've  nei- 
ther ache  nor  pain,  but  either  they  must  stick  a  pipe 
in  their  mouths,  to  make  'em  better  than  well,  or  else 
they  must  be  swallowing  something  strong,  though 
they're  forced  to  make  haste  before  the  next  meal 
comes  in.  But,  joyful  be  it  spoken,  our  father  was 
never  that  sort  o'  man.  And  if  it  had  pleased  God  to 
make  you  ugly,  like  me,  so  as  the  men  wouldn't  ha' 
run  after  you,  we  might  have  kept  to  our  own  family, 
and  had  nothing  to  do  with  folks  as  have  got  uneasy 
blood  in  their  veins." 

"  O  don't  say  so,  Priscilla,"  said  Nancy,  repenting 
that  she  had  called  forth  this  outburst;  "nobody  has 
any  occasion  to  find  fault  with  Godfrey.  It's  natural 
he  should  be  disappointed  at  not  having  any  children : 
every  man  likes  to  have  somebody  to  work  for  and 
lay  by  for,  and  he  always  counted  so  on  making  a  fuss 
with  them  when  they  were  little.  There's  many  an- 
other man  'ud  hanker  more  than  he  does.  He's  the 
best  of  husbands." 

"0, 1  know,"  said  Priscilla,  smiling  sarcastically,  "I 
know  the  way  o'  wives;  they  set  one  on  to  abuse 
their  husbands,  and  then  they  turn  round  on  one  and 
praise  'em  as  if  they  wanted  to  sell  'em.  But  father  '11 
be  waiting  for  me ;  we  must  turn  now." 

The  large  gig  with  the  steady  old  grey  was  at  the 
front  door,  and  Mr.  Lammeter  was  already  on  the  stone 


224  SILAS  MARNER. 

steps,  passing  the  time  in  recalling  to  Godfrey  what 
very  fine  points  Speckle  had  when  his  master  used  to 
ride  him. 

"I  always  would  have  a  good  horse,  you  know," 
said  the  old  gentleman,  not  liking  that  spirited  time 
to  be  quite  effaced  from  the  memory  of  his  juniors. 

"  Mind  you  bring  Nancy  to  the  Warrens  before  the 
week's  out,  Mr.  Cass,"  was  Priscilla's  parting  injunc- 
tion, as  she  took  the  reins,  and  shook  them  gently,  by 
way  of  friendly  injunction  to  Speckle. 

"I  shall  just  take  a  turn  to  the  fields  against  the 
Stone-pits,  Nancy,  and  look  at  the  draining,"  said  God- 
frey. 

"You'll  be  in  again  by  tea-time,  dear?" 

"  O  yes,  I  shall  be  back  in  an  hour." 

It  was  Godfrey's  custom  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  to 
do  a  little  contemplative  farming  in  a  leisurely  walk. 
Nancy  seldom  accompanied  him,  for  the  women  of  her 
generation — unless,  like  Priscilla,  they  took  to  out- 
door management — were  not  given  to  much  walking 
beyond  their  own  house  and  garden,  finding  sufficient 
exercise  in  domestic  duties.  So,  when  Priscilla  was 
not  with  her,  she  usually  sat  with  Mant's  Bible  before 
her,  and  after  following  the  text  with  her  eyes  for  a 
little  while,  she  would  gradually  permit  them  to  wan- 
der, as  her  thoughts  had  already  insisted  on  wander- 
ing. 

But  Nancy's  Sunday  thoughts  were  rarely  quite  out 
of  keeping  with  the  devout  and  reverential  intention 
implied  by  the  book  spread  open  before  her.  She 
was  not  theologically  instructed  enough  to  discern 
very  clearly  the  relation  between  the  sacred  docu- 


SILAS  MARNER.  225 

ments  of  the  past  which  she  opened  without  method, 
and  her  own  obscure  simple  life ;  but  the  spirit  of  rec- 
titude, and  the  sense  of  responsibility  for  the  effect  of 
her  conduct  on  others,  which  were  strong  elements  in 
Nancy's  character,  had  made  it  a  habit  with  her  to 
scrutinise  her  past  feelings  and  actions  with  self  ques- 
tioning solicitude.  Her  mind  not  being  courted  by  a 
great  variety  of  subjects,  she  filled  the  vacant  moments 
by  living  inwardly,  again  and  again,  through  all  her 
remembered  experience,  especially  through  the  fifteen 
years  of  her  married  time,  in  which  her  life  and  its 
significance  had  been  doubled.  She  recalled  the  small 
details,  the  words,  tones,  and  looks,  in  the  critical 
scenes  which  had  opened  a  new  epoch  for  her,  by  giv- 
ing her  a  deeper  insight  into  the  relations  and  trials 
of  life,  or  which  had  called  on  her  for  some  little  effort 
of  forbearance,  or  of  painful  adherence  to  an  imagined 
or  real  duty — asking  herself  continually  whether  she 
had  been  in  any  respect  blamable.  This  excessive 
rumination  and  self-questioning  is  perhaps  a  morbid 
habit  inevitable  to  a  mind  of  much  moral  sensibility 
when  shut  out  from  its  due  share  of  outward  activity 
and  of  practical  claims  on  its  affections — inevitable  to 
a  noble-hearted,  childless  woman,  when  her  lot  is  nar- 
row. "I  can  do  so  little — have  I  done  it  all  well?" 
is  the  perpetually  recurring  thought ;  and  there  are  no 
voices  calling  her  away  from  that  soliloquy,  no  pe- 
remptory demands  to  divert  energy  from  vain  regret 
or  superfluous  scruple. 

There  was  one  main  thread  of  personal  experience 
in  Nancy's  married  life,  and  on  it  hung  certain  deep- 
ly-felt scenes,  which  were  the  oftenest  revived  in  ret- 

K2 


226  SILAS  MARNER. 

rospect.  The  short  dialogue  with  Priscilla  in  the  gar- 
den had  determined  the  current  of  retrospect  in  that 
frequent  direction  this  particular  Sunday  afternoon. 
The  first  wandering  of  her  thought  from  the  text, 
which  she  still  attempted  dutifully  to  follow  with  her 
eyes  and  silent  lips,  was  into  an  imaginary  enlarge- 
ment of  the  defence  she  had  set  up  for  her  husband 
against  Priscilla's  implied  blame.  The  vindication 
of  the  loved  object  is  the  best  balm  affection  can  find 
for  its  wounds: — "A  man  must  have  so  much  on  his 
mind,"  is  the  belief  by  which  a  wife  often  supports 
a  cheerful  face  under  rough  answers  and  unfeeling 
words.  And  Nancy's  deepest  wounds  had  all  come 
from  the  perception  that  the  absence  of  children  from 
their  hearth  was  dwelt  on  in  her  husband's  mind  as 
a  privation  to  which  he  could  not  reconcile  himself. 
Yet  sweet  Nancy  might  have  been  expected  to  feel 
still  more  keenly  the  denial  of  a  blessing  to  which  she 
had  looked  forward  with  all  the  varied  expectations 
and  preparations,  solemn  and  prettily  trivial,  which 
fill  the  mind  of  a  loving  woman  when  she  expects  to 
become  a  mother.  Was  there  not  a  drawer  filled  with 
the  neat  work  of  her  hands,  all  unworn  and  untouch- 
ed, just  as  she  had  arranged  it  there  fourteen  years 
ago—just,  but  for  one  little  dress,  which  had  been 
made  the  burial-dress?  But  under  this  immediate 
personal  trial  Nancy  was  so  firmly  unmurmuring,  that 
years  ago  she  had  suddenly  renounced  the  habit  of 
visiting  this  drawer,  lest  she  should  in  this  way  be 
cherishing  a  longing  for  what  was  not  given.  Per- 
haps it  was  this  very  severity  towards  any  indulgence 
of  what  she  held  to  be  sinful  regret  in  herself,  that 


SILAS  MARKER.  227 

made  her  shrink  from  applying  her  own  standard  to 
her  husband.  "It  was  very  different — it  was  much 
worse  for  a  man  to  be  disappointed  in  that  way :  a 
woman  could  always  be  satisfied  with  devoting  her- 
self to  her  husband,  but  a  man  wanted  something  that 
would  make  him  look  forward  more — and  sitting  by 
the  fire  was  so  much  duller  to  him  than  to  a  woman." 
And  always,  when  Nancy  reached  this  point  in  her 
meditations — trying,  with  predetermined  sympathy, 
to  see  everything  as  Godfrey  saw  it — there  came  a 
renewal  of  self-questioning.  Had  she  done  everything 
in  her  power  to  lighten  Godfrey's  privation?  Had 
she  really  been  right  in  the  resistance  which  had  cost 
her  so  much  pain  six  years  ago,  and  again  four  years 
ago — the  resistance  to  her  husband's  wish  that  they 
should  adopt  a  child  ?  Adoption  was  more  remote 
from  the  ideas  and  habits  of  that  time  than  of  our 
own ;  still  Nancy  had  her  opinion  of  it.  It  was  as 
necessary  to  her  mind  to  have  an  opinion  on  all  top- 
ics, not  exclusively  masculine,  that  had  come  under 
her  notice,  as  for  her  to  have  a  precisely  marked 
place  for  every  article  of  her  personal  property :  and 
her  opinions  were  always  principles  to  be  unwaver- 
ingly acted  on.  They  were  firm,  not  because  of  their 
basis,  but  because  she  held  them  with  a  tenacity  in- 
separable from  her  mental  action.  On  all  the  duties 
and  proprieties  of  life,  from  filial  behaviour  to  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  evening  toilette,  pretty  Nancy  Lam- 
meter,  by  the  time  she  was  three-and-twenty,  had  her 
unalterable  little  code,  and  had  formed  every  one  of 
her  habits  in  strict  accordance  with  that  code.  She 
carried  these  decided  judgments  within  her  in  the 


228  SILAS  MAKNEK. 

most  unobtrusive  way :  they  rooted  themselves  in  her 
mind,  and  grew  there  as  quietly  as  grass.  Years  ago, 
we  know,  she  insisted  on  dressing  like  Priscilla,  be- 
cause "it  was  right  for  sisters  to  dress  alike,"  and  be- 
cause "  she  would  do  what  was  right  if  she  wore  a 
gown  dyed  with  cheese-colouring."  That  was  a  triv- 
ial but  typical  instance  of  the  mode  in  which  Nancy's 
life  was  regulated. 

It  was  one  of  those  rigid  principles,  and  no  petty 
egoistic  feeling,  which  had  been  the  ground  of  Nancy's 
difficult  resistance  to  her  husband's  wish.  To  adopt 
a  child,  because  children  of  your  own  had  been  denied 
you,  was  to  try  and  choose  your  lot  in  spite  of  Provi- 
dence; and  the  adopted  child,  she  was  convinced, 
would  never  turn  out  well,  and  would  be  a  curse  to 
those  who  had  wilfully  and  rebelliously  sought  that 
which  it  was  clear  that,  for  some  high  reason,  they 
were  better  without.  When  you  saw  a  thing  was  not 
meant  to  be,  said  Nancy,  it  was  a  bounden  duty  to 
leave  off  so  much  as  wishing  for  it.  And  so  far,  per- 
haps, the  wisest  of  men  could  scarcely  make  more  than 
a  verbal  improvement  in  her  principle.  But  the  con- 
ditions under  which  she  held  it  apparent  that  a  thing 
was  not  meant  to  be,  depended  on  a  more  peculiar 
mode  of  thinking.  She  would  have  given  up  making 
a  purchase  at  a  particular  place  if,  on  three  successive 
times,  rain,  or  some  other  cause  of  heaven's  sending, 
had  formed  an  obstacle ;  and  she  would  have  antici- 
pated a  broken  limb  or  other  heavy  misfortune  to  any 
one  who  persisted  in  spite  of  such  indications. 

"  But  why  should  you  think  the  child  would  turn 
out  ill?"  said  Godfrey,  in  his  remonstrances.     "She 


SILAS  MARNER.  229 

lias  thriven  as  well  as  child  can  do  with  the  weaver ; 
and  he  adopted  her.  There  isn't  such  a  pretty  girl 
anywhere  else  in  the  parish,  or  one  titter  for  the  sta- 
tion we  could  give  her.  Where  can  be  the  likelihood 
of  her  being  a  curse  to  anybody?" 

"Yes,  my  dear  Godfrey,"  said  Nancy,  who  was  sit- 
ting with  her  hands  tightly  clasped  together,  with 
yearning,  regretful  affection  in  her  eyes.  "  The  child 
may  not  turn  out  ill  with  the  weaver.  But,  then,  he 
didn't  go  to  seek  htr,  as  we  should  be  doing.  It  will 
be  wrong :  I  feel  sure  it  will.  Don't  you  remember 
what  that  lady  we  met  at  the  Kqyston  Baths  told  us 
about  the  child  her  sister  adopted?  That  was  the 
only  adopting  I  ever  heard  of;  and  the-  child  was 
transported  when  it  was  twenty-three.  Dear  Godfrey 
— don't  ask  me  to  do  what  I  know  is  wrong :  I  should 
never  be  happy  again.  I  know  it's  very  hard  for  you 
— it's  easier  for  me — but  it's  the  will  of  Providence." 

It  might  seem  singular  that  Nancy — with  her  relig- 
ious theory  pieced  together  out  of  narrow  social  tra- 
ditions, fragments  of  church  doctrine  imperfectly  un- 
derstood, and  girlish  reasonings  on  her  small  experi- 
ence— should  have  arrived  by  herself  at  a  way  of 
thinking  so  nearly  akin  to  that  of  many  devout  peo- 
ple, whose  beliefs  are  held  in  the  shape  of  a  system 
quite  remote  from  her  knowledge — singular,  if  we  did 
not  know  that  human  beliefs,  like  all  other  natural 
growths,  elude  the  barriers  of  system. 

Godfrey  had  from  the  first  specified  Eppie,  then 
about  twelve  years  old,  as  a  child  suitable  for  them 
to  adopt.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  Silas 
would  rather  part  with  his  life  than  with  Eppie. 


230  SILAS  MARNER. 

Surely  the  weaver  would  wish  the  best  to  the  child 
he  had  taken  so  much  trouble  with,  and  would  be 
glad  that  such  good  fortune  should  happen  to  her: 
she  would  always  be  very  grateful  to  him,  and  he 
would  be  well  provided  for  to  the  end  of  his  life — 
provided  for  as  the  excellent  part  he  had  done  by  the 
child  deserved.  Was  it  not  an  appropriate  thing  for 
people  in  a  higher  station  to  take  a  charge  off  the 
hands  of  a  man  in  a  lower  ?  It  seemed  an  eminently 
appropriate  thing  to  Godfrey,  for  reasons  that  were 
known  only  to  himself;  and  by  a  common  fallacy,  he 
imagined  the  measure  would  be  easy  because  he  had 
private  motives  for  desiring  it.  This  was  rather  a 
coarse  mode  of  estimating  Silas's  relation  to  Eppie; 
but  we  must  remember  that  many  of  the  impressions 
which  Godfrey  was  likely  to  gather  concerning  the 
labouring  people  around  him  would  favour  the  idea 
that  deep  affections  can  hardly  go  along  with  callous 
palms  and  scant  means ;  and  he  had  not  had  the  op- 
portunity, even  if  he  had  had  the  power,  of  entering 
intimately  into  all  that  was  exceptional  in  the  weav- 
er's experience.  It  was  only  the  want  of  adequate 
knowledge  that  could  have  made  it  possible  for  God- 
frey deliberately  to  entertain  an  unfeeling  project: 
his  natural  kindness  had  outlived  that  blighting  time 
of  cruel  wishes,  and  Nancy's  praise  of  him  as  a  hus- 
band was  not  founded  entirely  on  a  wilful  illusion. 

"  I  was  right,"  she  said  to  herself,  when  she  had  re- 
called all  their  scenes  of  discussion,  "I  feel  I  was 
right  to  say  him  nay,  though  it  hurt  me  more  than 
anything ;  but  how  good  Godfrey  has  been  about  it ! 
Many  men  would  have  been  very  angry  with  me  for 


SILAS  MARNER.  231 

standing  out  against  their  wishes ;  and  they  might 
have  thrown  out  that  they'd  had  ill  luck  in  marrying 
me ;  but  Godfrey  has  never  been  the  man  to  say  me 
an  unkind  word.  It's  only  what  he  can't  hide — ev- 
erything seems  so  blank  to  him,  I  know;  and  the  land 
— what  a  difference  it  'ud  make  to  him,  when  he  goes 
to  see  after  things,  if  he'd  children  growing  up  that  he 
was  doing  it  all  for!  But  I  won't  murmur;  and  per- 
haps if  he'd  married  a  woman  who'd  have  had  chil- 
dren, she'd  have  vexed  him  in  other  ways." 

This  possibility  was  Nancy's  chief  comfort ;  and  to 
give  it  greater  strength,  she  laboured  to  make  it  impos- 
sible that  any  other  wife  should  have  had  more  per- 
fect tenderness.  She  had  been  forced  to  vex  him  by 
that  one  denial.  Godfrey  was  not  insensible  to  that 
loving  effort,  and  did  Nancy  no  injustice  as  to  the 
motives  of  her  obstinacy.  It  was  impossible  to  have 
lived  with  her  fifteen  years  and  not  be  aware  that  an 
unselfish  clinging  to  the  right,  and  a  sincerity  clear  as 
the  flower-born  dew,  were  her  main  characteristics; 
indeed,  Godfrey  felt  this  so  strongly,  that  his  own 
more  wavering  nature,  too  averse  to  facing  difficulty 
to  be  unvaryingly  simple  and  truthful,  was  kept  in  a 
certain  awe  of  this  gentle  wife,  who  watched  his  looks 
with  a  yearning  to  obey  them.  It  seemed  to  him  im- 
possible that  he  should  ever  confess  to  her  the  truth 
about  Eppie :  she  would  never  recover  from  the  re- 
pulsion the  story  of  his  earlier'  marriage  would  create, 
told  to  her  now,  after  that  long  concealment.  And 
the  child,  too,  he  thought,  must  become  an  object  of 
repulsion:  the  very  sight  of  her  would  be  painful. 
The  shock  to  Nancy's  mingled  pride  and  ignorance 


232  SILAS  MAKNEB. 

of  the  world's  evil  might  even  be  too  much  for  her 
delicate  frame.  Since  he  had  married  her  with  that 
secret  on  his  heart,  he  must  keep  it  there  to  the  last. 
Whatever  else  he  did,  he  could  not  make  an  irrepara- 
ble breach  between  himself  and  this  long-loved  wife. 

Meanwhile,  why  could  he  not  make  up  his  mind  to 
the  absence  of  children  from  a  hearth  brightened  by 
such  a  wife  ?  Why  did  his  mind  fly  uneasily  to  that 
void,  as  if  it  were  the  sole  reason  why  life  was  not 
thoroughly  joyous  to  him  ?  I  suppose  that  is  the  way 
with  all  men  and  women  who  reach  middle  age  with- 
out the  clear  perception  that  life  never  can  be  thor- 
oughly joyous:  under  the  vague  dulness  of  the  grey 
hours,  dissatisfaction  seeks  a  definite  object,  and  finds 
it  in  the  privation  of  an  untried  good.  Dissatisfaction, 
seated  musingly  on  a  childless  hearth,  thinks  with 
envy  of  the  father  whose  return  is  greeted  by  young 
voices — seated  at  the  meal  where  the  little  heads  rise 
one  above  another  like  nursery  plants,  it  sees  a  black 
care  hovering  behind  every  one  of  them,  and  thinks 
the  impulses  by  which  men  abandon  freedom,  and 
seek  for  ties,  are  surely  nothing  but  a  brief  madness. 
In  Godfrey's  case  there  were  further  reasons  why  his 
thoughts  should  be  continually  solicited  by  this  one 
point  in  his  lot :  his  conscience,  never  thoroughly  easy 
about  Eppie,  now  gave  his  childless  home  the  aspect 
of  a  retribution ;  and  as  the  time  passed  on,  under 
Nancy's  refusal  to  adopt  her,  any  retrieval  of  his  er- 
ror became  more  and  more  difficult. 

On  this  Sunday  afternoon  it  was  already  four  years 
since  there  had  been  any  allusion  to  the  subject  be- 
tween them,  and  Nancy  supposed  that  it  was  for  ever 
buried. 


SILAS  MARNER.  233 

"  I  wonder  if  he'll  mind  it  less  or  more  as  he  gets 
older,"  she  thought;  "I'm  afraid  more.  Aged  people 
feel  the  miss  of  children :  what  would  father  do  with- 
out Priscilla  ?  And  if  I  die,  Godfrey  will  be  very 
lonely — not  holding  together  with  his  brothers  much. 
But  I  won't  be  over-anxious,  and  trying  to  make  things 
out  beforehand :  I  must  do  my  best  for  the  present." 

With  that  last  thought  Nancy  roused  herself  from 
her  reverie,  and  turned  her  eyes  again  towards  the 
forsaken  page.  It  had  been  forsaken  longer  than  she 
imagined,  for  she  was  presently  surprised  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  servant  with  the  tea-things.  It  was, 
in  fact,  a  little  before  the  usual  time  for  tea ;  but  Jane 
had  her  reasons. 

"Is  your  master  come  into  the  yard,  Jane?" 

"  No  'm,  he  isn't,"  said  Jane,  with  a  slight  empha- 
sis, of  which,  however,  her  mistress  took  no  notice. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you've  seen  'em,  'm,"  con- 
tinued Jane,  after  a  pause,  "  but  there's  folks  making 
haste  all  one  way,  afore  the  front  window.  I  doubt 
something's  happened.  There's  niver  a  man  to  be 
seen  i'  the  yard,  else  I'd  send  and  see.  I've  been  up 
into  the  top  attic,  but  there's  no  seeing  anything  for 
trees.     I  hope  nobody's  hurt,  that's  all." 

"  0  no,  I  daresay  there's  nothing  much  the  matter," 
said  Nancy.  "  It's  perhaps  Mr.  Snell's  bull  got  out 
again  as  he  did  before." 

¥**  I  wish  he  mayn't  gore  anybody,  then,  that's  all," 
said  Jane,  not  altogether  despising  a  hypothesis  which 
covered  a  few  imaginary  calamities. 

"  That  girl  is  always  terrifying  me,"  thought  Nan- 
cy;  "I  wish  Godfrey  would  come  in." 


234  SILAS  MARNER. 

She  went  to  the  front  window  and  looked  as  far  as 
she  could  see  along  the  road,  with  an  uneasiness  which 
she  felt  to  be  childish,  for  there  were  now  no  such 
signs  of  excitement  as  Jane  had  spoken  of,  and  God- 
frey would  not  be  likely  to  return  by  the  village  road, 
but  by  the  fields.  She  continued  to  stand,  however, 
looking  at  the  placid  churchyard  with  the  long  shad- 
ows of  the  gravestones  across  the  bright  green  hillocks, 
and  at  the  glowing  autumn  colours  of  the  Eectory 
trees  beyond.  Before  such  calm  external  beauty  the 
presence  of  a  vague  fear  is  more  distinctly  felt — like 
a  raven  flapping  its  slow  wing  across  the  sunny  air. 
Nancy  wished  more  and  more  that  Godfrey  would 
come  in. 


SILAS  MAKSTEK.  235 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Some  one  opened  the  door  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  Nancy  felt  that  it  was  her  husband.  She 
turned  from  the  window  with  gladness  in  her  eyes, 
for  the  wife's  chief  dread  was  stilled. 

"Dear,  I'm  so  thankful  you're  come,"  she  said,  go- 
ing towards  him.     "  I  began  to  get  .  .  .  ." 

She  paused  abruptly,  for  Godfrey  was  laying  down 
his  hat  with  trembling  hands,  and  turned  towards  her 
with  a  pale  face  and  a  strange  unanswering  glance,  as 
if  he  saw  her  indeed,  but  saw  her  as  part  of  a  scene 
invisible  to  herself.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
not  daring  to  speak  again ;  but  he  left  the  touch  un- 
noticed, and  threw  himself  into  his  chair. 

Jane  was  already  at  the  door  with  the  hissing  urn. 
"Tell  her  to  keep  away,  will  you?"  said  Godfrey; 
and  when  the  door  was  closed  again  he  exerted  him- 
self to  speak  more  distinctly. 

"Sit  down,  Nancy — there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a 
chair  opposite  him.  "  I  came  back  as  soon  as  I  could, 
to  hinder  anybody's  telling  you  but  me.  I've  had  a 
great  shock — but  I  care  most  about  the  shock  it'll  be 
to  you." 

"It  isn't  father  and  Priscilla?"  said  Nancy,  with 
quivering  lips,  clasping  her  hands  together  tightly  on 
her  lap. 

"  No,  it's  nobody  living,"  said  Godfrey,  unequal  to 


236  SILAS  MAENEB. 

the  considerate  skill  with*  which  he  could  have  wished 
to  make  his  revelation.     "  It's  Dunstan — my  brother 
Dunstan,  that  we  lost  sight  of  sixteen  years  ago. 
,  We've  found  him — found  his  body — his  skeleton." 

The  deep  dread  Godfrey's  look  had  created  on 
Naffcy  made  her  feel  these  words  a  relief.  She  sat  in 
comparative  calmness  to  hear  what  else  he  had  to  tell. 
He  went  on : 

"  The  Stone-pit  has  gone  dry  suddenly — from  the 
draining,  I  suppose ;  and  there  he  lies — has  lain  for 
sixteen  years,  wedged  between  two  great  stones. 
There's  his  watch  and  seals,  and  there's  my  gold-han- 
dled hunting-whip,  with  my  name  on:  he  took  it 
away;  without  my  knowing,  the  day  he  went  hunting 
on  Wildfire,  the  last  time  he  was  seen." 

Godfrey  paused ;  it  was  not  so  easy  to  say  what 
came  next.  "Do  you  think  he  drowned  himself?" 
said  Nancy,  almost  wondering  that  her  husband  should 
be  so  deeply  shaken  by  what  had  happened  all  those 
years  ago  to  an  unloved  brother,  of  whom  worse 
things  had  been  augured. 

"  No,  he  fell  in,"  said  Godfrey,  in  a  low  but  distinct 
voice,  as  if  he  felt  some  deep  meaning  in  the  fact. 
Presently  he  added:  "Dunstan  was  the  man  that 
robbed  Silas  Marner." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Nancy's  face  and  neck  at  this 
surprise  and  shame,  for  she  had  been  bred  up  to  re- 
gard even  a  distant  kinship  with  crime  as  a  dishonour. 

"  O.  Godfrey !"  she  said,  with  compassion  in  her 
tone,  for  she  had  immediately  reflected  that  the  dis- 
honour must  be  felt  still  more  keenly  by  her  husband. 

"  There  was  the  money  in  the  pit,"  he  continued — 


SILAS  MARNER.  237 

"  all  the  weaver's  money.  Everything's  being  gath- 
ered up,  and  they're  taking  the  skeleton  to  the  Kain- 
bow.  But  I  came  back  to  tell  you :  there  was  no  hin- 
dering it ;  you  must  know." 

He  was  silent,  looking  on  the  ground  for  twq  long 
minutes.  Nancy  would  have  said  some  words  of  com- 
fort under  this  disgrace,  but  she  refrained,  from  an  in- 
stinctive sense  that  there  was  something  behind — that 
Godfrey-  had  something  else  to  tell  her.  Presently  he 
lifted  his  eyes  to  her  face,  and  kept  them  fixed  on  her, 
as  he  said — 

"Everything  comes  to  light,  Nancy,  sooner  or  later. 
When  God  Almighty  wills  it,  our  secrets  are  found 
out.  I've  lived  with  a  secret  on  my  mind,  but  I'll 
keep  it  from  you  no  longer.  I  wouldn't  have  you 
know  it  by  somebody  else,  and  not  by  me — I  wouldn't 
have  you  find  it  out  after  I'm  dead.  I'll  tell  you 
now.  It's  been  '  I  will'  and  '  I  won't'  with  me  all  my 
life — I'll  make  sure  of  myself  now." 

Nancy's  utmost  dread  had  returned.  The  eyes  of 
the  husband  and  wife  met  with  awe  in  them,  as  at  a 
crisis  which  suspended  affection. 

11  Nancy,"  said  Godfrey,  slowly,  "  when  I  married 
you,  I  hid  something  from  you — something  I  ought  to 
have  told  you.  That  woman  Marner  found  dead  in 
the  snow — Eppie's  mother — that  wretched  woman — 
was  my  wife :  Eppie  is  my  child." 

He  paused,  dreading  the  effect  of  his  confession. 
But  Nancy  sat  quite  still,  only  that  her  eyes  dropped 
and  ceased  to  meet  his.  She  was  pale  and  quiet  as  a 
meditative  statue,  clasping  her  hands  on  her  lap. . 

"  You'll  never  think  the  same  of  me  again,"  said 


238  SILAS  MARNER. 

Godfrey,  after  a  little  while,  with  some  tremor  in  his 
voice. 

She  was  silent. 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  left  the  child  unowned:  I 
oughtn't  to  have  kept  it  from  you.  But  I  couldn't 
bear  to  give  you  up,  Nancy.  I  was  led  away  into 
marrying  her — I  suffered  for  it." 

Still  Nancy  was  silent,  looking  down ;  and  he  al- 
most expected  that  she  would  presently  get  up  and 
say  she  would  go  to  her  father's.  How  could  she 
have  any  mercy  for  faults  that  must  seem  so  black  to 
her,  with  her  simple,  severe  notions  ? 

But  at  last  she  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  his  again  and 
spoke.  There  was  no  indignation  in  her  voice — only 
deep  regret. 

"  Godfrey,  if  you  had  but  told  me  this  six  years 
ago,  we  could  have  done  some  of  our  duty  by  the 
child.  Do  you  think  I'd  have  refused  to  take  her  in, 
if  I'd  known  she  was  yours  ?" 

At  that  moment  Godfrey  felt  all  the  bitterness  of 
an  error  that  was  not  simply  futile,  but  had  defeated 
its  own  end.  He  had  not  measured  this  wife  with 
whom  he  had  lived  so  long.  But  she  spoke  again, 
with  more  agitation. 

"And — O,  Godfrey — if  we'd  had  her  from  the  first, 
if  you'd  taken  to  her  as  you  ought,  she'd  have  loved 
me  for  her  mother,  and  you'd  have  been  happier  with 
me :  I  could  better  have  bore  my  little  baby  dying, 
and  our  life  might  have  been  more  like  what  we  used 
to  think  it  'ud  be." 

The  tears  fell,  and  Nancy  ceased  to  speak. 

"  But  you  wouldn't  have  married  me  then,  Nancy, 


SILAS  MARKER.  239 

if  I'd  told  you,"  said  Godfrey,  urged,  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  self-reproach,  to  prove  to  himself  that  his  con- 
duct had  not  been  utter  folly.  "  You  may  think  you 
would  now,  but  you  wouldn't  then.  "With  your  pride 
and  your  father's,  you'd  have  hated  having  anything 
to  do  with  me  after  the  talk  there'd  have  been." 

"  I  can't  say  what  I  should  have  done  about  that, 
Godfrey.  I  should  never  have  married  anybody  else. 
But  I  wasn't  worth  doing  wrong  for — nothing  is  in 
this  world.  Nothing  is  so  good  as  it  seems  before- 
hand— not  even  our  marrying  wasn't,  you  see."  There 
was  a  faint  sad  smile  on  Nancy's  face  as  she  said  the 
last  words. 

"  I'm  a  worse  man  than  you  thought  I  was,  Nancy," 
said  Godfrey,  rather  tremulously.  "  Can  you  forgive 
me  ever?" 

11  The  wrong  to  me  is  but  little,  Godfrey :  you've 
made  it  up  to  me — you've  been  good  to  me  for  fifteen 
years.  It's  another  you  did  the  wrong  to ;  and  I 
doubt  it  can  never  be  made  up  for." 

"  But  we  can  take  Eppie  now,"  said  Godfrey.  "  I 
won't  mind  the  world  knowing  at  last.  I'll  be  plain 
and  open  for  the  rest  o'  my  life." 

"  It'll  be  different  coming  to  us,  now  she's  grown 
up,"  said  Nancy,  shaking  her  head  sadly.  li  But  it's 
your  duty  to  acknowledge  her  and  provide  for  her; 
and  I'll  do  my  part  by  her,  and  pray  to  God  Almighty 
to  make  her  love  me." 

11  Then  we'll  go  together  to  Silas  Marner's  this  very 
night,  as  soon  as  everything's  quiet  at  the  Stone-pits." 


240  SILAS  MARNER. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Between  eight  and  nine  o'clock  that  evening,  Ep- 
pie  and  Silas  were  seated  alone  in  the  cottage.  After 
the  great  excitement  the  weaver  had  undergone  from 
the  events  of  the  afternoon,  he  had  felt  a  longing  for 
this  quietude,  and  had  even  begged  Mrs.  Winthrop 
and  Aaron,  who  had  naturally  lingered  behind  every 
one  else,  to  leave  him  alone  with  his  child.  The  ex- 
citement had  not  passed  away :  it  had  only  reached 
that  stage  when  the  keenness  of  the  susceptibility 
makes  external  stimulus  intolerable — when  there  is 
no  sense  of  weariness,  but  rather  an  intensity  of  in- 
ward life,  under  which  sleep  is  an  impossibility.  Any 
one  who  has  watched  such  moments  in  other  men  re- 
members the  brightness  of  the  eyes  and  the  strange 
definiteness  that  comes  over  coarse  features  from  that 
transient  influence.  It  is  as  if  a  new  fineness  of  ear 
for  all  spiritual  voices  had  sent  wonder-working  vibra- 
tions through  the  heavy  mortal  frame — as  if  "beauty 
born  of  murmuring  sound"  had  passed  into  the  face 
of  the  listener. 

Silas's  face  showed  that  sort  of  transfiguration,  as 
he  sat  in  his  arm-chair  and  looked  at  Eppie.  She  had 
drawn  her  own  chair  towards  his  knees,  and  leaned 
forward,  holding  both  his  hands,  while  she  looked  up 
at  him.  On  the  table  near  them,  lit  by  a  candle,  lay 
the  recovered  gold — the  old  long-loved  gold,  ranged 


SILAS  MAENEE.  241 

in  orderly  heaps,  as  Silas  used  to  range  it  in  the  days 
it  was  his  only  joy.  He  had  been  telling  her  how  he 
used  to  count  it  every  night,  and  how  his  soul  was 
utterly  desolate  till  she  was  sent  to  him. 

"  At  first,  I'd  a  sort  o'  feeling  come  across  me  now 
and  then,"  he  was  saying  in  a  subdued  tone,  "as  if 
you  might  be  changed  into  the  gold  again ;  for  some- 
times, turn  my  head  which  way  I  would,  I  seemed  to 
see  the  gold ;  and  I  thought  I  should  be  glad  if  I 
could  feel  it,  and  find  it  was  come  back.  But  that 
didn't  last  long.  After  a  bit,  I  should  have  thought 
it  was  a  curse  come  again,  if  it  had  drove  you  from 
me,  for  I'd  got  to  feel  the  need  o'  your  looks  and  your 
voice  and  the  touch  o'  your  little  fingers.  You  didn't 
know  then,  Eppie,  when  you  were  such  a  little  un — 
you  didn't  know  what  your  old  father  Silas  felt  for 
you." 

"But  I  know  now,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "If  it 
hadn't  been  for  you,  they'd  have  taken  me  to  the  work- 
house, and  there'd  have  been  nobody  to  love  me." 

"Eh,  my  precious  child,  the  blessing  was  mine. 
If  you  hadn't  been  sent  to  save  me,  I  should  ha'  gone 
to  the  grave  in  my  misery.  The  money  was  taken 
away  from  me  in  time ;  and  you  see  it's  been  kept — 
kept  till  it  was  wanted  for  you.  It's  wonderful — our 
life  is  wonderful." 

Silas  sat  in  silence  a  few  minutes,  looking  at  the 
money.  "  It  takes  no  hold  of  me  now,"  he  said,  pon- 
deringly — "  the  money  doesn't.  I  wonder  if  it  ever 
could  again — I  doubt  it  might,  if  I  lost  you,  Eppie. 
I  might  come  to  think  I  was  forsaken  again,  and  lose 
the  feeling  that  God  was  good  to  me." 

L 


242  SILAS  MARNEK. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knocking  at  the  door ; 
and  Eppie  was  obliged  to  rise  without  answering  Si- 
las. Beautiful  she  looked,  with  the  tenderness  of  gath- 
ering tears  in  her  eyes,  and  a  slight  flush  on  her 
cheeks,  as  she  stepped  to  open  the  door.  The  flush 
deepened  when  she  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass. 
She  made  her  little  rustic  curtsy,  and  held  the  door 
wide  for  them  to  enter. 

"We're  disturbing  you  very  late,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Cass,  taking  Eppie's  hand,  and  looking  in  her 
face  with  an  expression  of  anxious  interest  and  ad- 
miration.    Nancy  herself  was  pale  and  tremulous. 

Eppie,  after  placing  chairs  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass, 
went  to  stand  against  Silas,  opposite  to  them. 

"  "Well,  Marner;"  said  Godfrey,  trying  to  speak  with 
perfect  firmness,  "it's  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  see 
you  with  your  money  again,  that  you've  been  deprived 
of  so  many  years.  It  was  one  of  my  family  did  you 
the  wrong — the  more  grief  to  me — and  I  feel  bound 
to  make  up  to  you  for  it  in  every  way.  Whatever 
I  can  do  for  you  will  be  nothing  but  paying  a  debt, 
even  if  I  looked  no  farther  than  the  robbery.  But 
there  are  other  things  I'm  beholden,  shall  be  beholden 
to  you  for,  Marner." 

Godfrey  checked  himself.  It  had  been  agreed  be- 
tween him  and  his  wife  that  the  subject  of  his  father- 
hood should  be  approached  very  carefully,  and  that, 
if  possible,  the  disclosure  should  be  reserved  for  the 
future,  so  that  it  might  be  made  to  Eppie  gradually. 
Nancy  had  urged  this,  because  she  felt  strongly  the 
painful  light  in  which  Eppie  must  inevitably  see  the 
relation  between  her  father  and  mother. 


SILAS  MARNER.  243 

Silas,  always  ill  at  ease  when  he  was  being  spoken 
to  by  "  betters,"  such  as  Mr.  Cass — tall,  powerful,  florid 
men,  seen  chiefly  on  horseback — answered  with  some 
constraint — 

"  Sir,  I've  a  deal  to  thank  you  for  a'ready.  As  for 
the  robbery,  I  count  it  no  loss  to  me.  And  if  I  did, 
you  couldn't  help  it :  you  aren't  answerable  for  it." 

"  You  may  look  at  it  in  that  way,  Marner,  but  I 
never  can ;  and  I  hope  you'll  let  me  act  according  to 
my  own  feeling  of  what's  just.  I  know  you're  easily 
contented :  you've  been  a  hard-working  man  all  your 
life." 

"Yes,  sir,  yes,"  said  Marner,  meditatively.  "I  should 
ha'  been  bad  off  without  my  work :  it  was  what  I  held 
by  when  everything  else  was  gone  from  me." 

"  Ah,"  said  Godfrey,  applying  Marner's  words  sim- 
ply to  his  bodily  wants,  "  it  was  a  good  trade  for  you 
in  this  country,  because  there's  been  a  great  deal  of 
linen-weaving  to  be  done.  But  you're  getting  rather 
past  such  close  work,  Marner ;  it's  time  you  laid  by 
and  had  some  rest.  You  look  a  good  deal  pulled 
down,  though  you're  not  an  old  man,  are  you  ?" 

"Fifty -five,  as  near  as  I  can  say,  sir,"  said  Silas. 

"  0,  why,  you  may  live  thirty  years  longer — look 
at  old  Macey !  And  that  money  on  the  table,  after 
all,  is  but  little.  It  won't  go  far  either  way — whether 
it's  put  out  to  interest,  or  you  were  to  live  on  it  as 
long  as  it  would  last :  it  wouldn't  go  far  if  you'd  no- 
body to  keep  but  yourself,  and  you've  had  two  to  keep 
for  a  good  many  years  now." 

"  Eh,  sir,"  said  Silas,  unaffected  by  anything  God- 
frey was  saying,  "I'm  in  no  fear  o'  want.  We  shall  do 


244  SILAS  MARKER. 

very  well— Bppie  and  me  '11  do  well  enough.  There's 
few  working-folks  have  got  so  much  laid  by  as  that. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is  to  gentlefolks,  but  I  look  upon 
it  as  a  deal — almost  too  much.  And  as  for  us,  it's  lit- 
tle we  want." 

"  Only  the  garden,  father,"  said  Eppie,  blushing  up 
to  the  ears  the  moment  after. 

"You  love  a  garden,  do  you,  my  dear?"  said  Nancy, 
thinking  that  this  turn  in  the  point  of  view  might  help 
her  husband.  "We  should  agree  in  that:  I  give  a  deal 
of  time  to  the  garden." 

"  Ah,  there's  plenty  of  gardening  at  the  Ked  House," 
said  Godfrey,  surprised  at  the  difficulty  he  found  in 
approaching  a  proposition  which  had  seemed  so  easy 
to  him  in  the  distance.  "You've  done  a  good  part 
by  Eppie,  Marner,  for  sixteen  years.  It  'ud  be  a  great 
comfort  to  you  to  see  her  well  provided  for,  wouldn't 
it?  She  looks  blooming  and  healthy,  but  not  fit  for 
any  hardships :  she  doesn't  look  like  a  strapping  girl 
come  of  working  parents.  You'd  like  to  see  her  taken 
care  of  by  those  who  can  leave  her  well  off,  and  make 
a  lady  of  her ;  she's  more  fit  for  it  than  for  a  rough 
life,  such  as  she  might  come  to  have  in  a  few  years' 
time." 

A  slight  flush  came  over  Marner's  face,  and  disap- 
peared, like  a  passing  gleam.  Eppie  was  simply  won- 
dering Mr.  Cass  should  talk  so  about  things  that  seem- 
ed to  have  nothing  to  do  with  reality ;  but  Silas  was 
hurt  and  uneasy. 

"I  don't  take  your  meaning,  sir,"  he  answered,  not 
having  words  at  command  to  express  the  mingled 
feelings  with  which  he  had  heard  Mr.  Cass's  words. 


SILAS  HARNER.  245 

"Well,  my  meaning  is  this,  Marner,"  said  Godfrey, 
determined  to  come  to  the  point.  "  Mrs.  Cass  and  I, 
you  know,  have  no  children — nobody  to  benefit  by 
our  good  home  and  everything  else  we  have — more 
than  enough  for  ourselves.  And  we  should  like  to 
have  somebody  in  the  place  of  a  daughter  to  us — we 
should  like  to  have  Eppie,  and  treat  her  in  every  way 
as  our  own  child.  It  would  be  a  great  comfort  to  you 
in  your  old  age,  I  hope,  to  see  her  fortune  made  in 
that  way,  after  you  have  been  at  the  trouble  of  bring- 
ing her  up  so  well.  And  it's  right  you  should  have 
every  reward  for  that.  And  Eppie,  I'm  sure,  will  al- 
ways love  you  and  be  grateful  to  you:  she'd  come 
and  see  you  very  often,  and  we  should  all  be  on  the 
look-out  to  do  everything  we  could  towards  making 
you  comfortable." 

A  plain  man  like  Godfrey  Cass,  speaking  under 
some  embarrassment,  necessarily  blunders  on  words 
that  are  coarser  than  his  intentions,  and  that  are  like- 
ly to  fall  gratingly  on  susceptible  feelings.  While  he 
had  been  speaking,  Eppie  had  quietly  passed  her  arm 
behind  Silas's  head,  and  let  her  hand  rest  against  it 
caressingly:  she  felt  him  trembling  violently.  He  was 
silent  for  some  moments  when  Mr.  Cass  had  ended — 
powerless  under  the  conflict  of  emotions,  all  alike  pain- 
ful. Eppie's  heart  was  swelling  at  the  sense  that  her 
father  was  in  distress;  and  she  was  just  going  to  lean 
down  and  speak  to  him,  when  one  struggling  dread 
at  last  gained  the  mastery  over  every  other  in  Silas, 
and  he  said,  faintly — 

"Eppie,  my  child,  speak.  I  won't  stand  in  your 
way.     Thank  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass." 


246  SILAS  MARNER. 

Eppie  took  her  hand  from  her  father's  head,  and 
came  forward  a  step.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  but 
not  with  shyness  this  time :  the  sense  that  her  father 
was  in  doubt  and  suffering  banished  that  sort  of  self- 
consciousness.  She  dropped  a  low  curtsy,  first  to  Mrs. 
Cass  and  then  to  Mr.  Cass,  and  said — 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am — thank  you,  sir.  But  I  can't 
leave  my  father,  nor  own  anybody  nearer  than  him. 
And  I  don't  want  to  be  a  lady — thank  you  all  the 
same" — (here  Eppie  dropped  another  curtsy).  "I 
couldn't  give  up  the  folks  I've  been  used  to." 

Eppie's  lip  began  to  tremble  a  little  at  the  last 
words.  She  retreated  to  her  father's  chair  again,  and 
held  him  round  the  neck;  while  Silas,  with  a  sub- 
dued sob,  put  up  his  hand  to  grasp  hers. 

The  tears  were  in  Nancy's  eyes,  but  her  sympathy 
with  Eppie  was,  naturally,  divided  with  distress  on 
her  husband's  account.  She  dared  not  speak,  won- 
dering what  was  going  on  in  her  husband's  mind. 

Godfrey  felt  an  irritation  inevitable  to  almost  all  of 
us  when  we  encounter  an  unexpected  obstacle.  He 
had  been  full  of  his  own  penitence,  and  resolution  to 
retrieve  his  error  as  far  as  the  time  was  left  to  him ; 
he  was  possessed  with  all-important  feelings,  that 
were  to  lead  to  a  predetermined  course  of  action 
which  he  had  fixed  on  as  the  right,  and  he  was  not 
prepared  to  enter  with  lively  appreciation  into  other 
people's  feelings,  counteracting  his  virtuous  resolves. 
The  agitation  with  which  he  spoke  again  was  not 
quite  unmixed  with  anger. 

"  But  I  have  a  claim  on  you,  Eppie — the  strongest 
of  all  claims.     It  is  my  duty,  Marner,  to  own  Eppie 


SILAS  MARKER.  247 

as  my  child,  and  provide  for  her.  She  is  my  own 
child — her  mother  was  my  wife.  I  have  a  natural 
claim  on  her  that  must  stand  before  every  other." 

Eppie  had  given  a  violent  start,  and  turned  quite 
pale.  Silas,  on  the  contrary,  who  had  been  relieved, 
by  Eppie's  answer,  from  the  dread  lest  his  mind  should 
be  in  opposition  to  hers,  felt  the  spirit  of  resistance  in 
him  set  free,  and  not  without  a  touch  of  parental 
fierceness.  "  Then,  sir,"  he  answered,  with  an  accent 
of  bitterness  that  had  been  silent  in  him  since  the 
memorable  day  when  his  youthful  hope  had  perished 
— "  then,  sir,  why  didn't  you  say  so  sixteen  year  ago, 
and  claim  her  before  I'd  come  to  love  her,  i'stead  o7 
coming  to  take  her  from  me  now,  when  you  might  as 
well  take  the  heart  out  o'  my  body?  God  gave  her 
to  me  because  you  turned  your  back  upon  her,  and 
He  looks  upon  her  as  mine :  you've  no  right  to  her ! 
"When  a  man  turns  a  blessing  from  his  door,  it  falls  to 
them  as  take  it  in." 

"I  know  that,  Marner.  I  was  wrong.  I've  re- 
pented of  my  conduct  in  that  matter,"  said  Godfrey, 
who  could  not  help  feeling  the  edge  of  Silas's  words. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  sir,"  said  Marner,  with  gather- 
ing excitement ;  "  but  repentance  doesn't  alter  what's 
been  going  on  for  sixteen  years.  Your  coming  now 
and  saying  '  I'm  her  father'  doesn't  alter  the  feelings 
inside  us.  It's  me  she's  been  calling  her  father  ever 
since  she  could  say  the  word." 

"But  I  think  you  might  look  at  the  thing  more 
reasonably,  Marner,"  said  Godfrey,  unexpectedly  awed 
by  the  weaver's  direct  truth-speaking.  "It  isn't  as  if 
she  was  to  be  taken  quite  away  from  you,  so  that  you'd 


248  SILAS  MARNER. 

never  see  her  again.  She'll  be  very  near  you,  and 
come  to  see  you  very  often.  She'll  feel  just  the  same 
towards  you." 

"Just  the  same?"  said  Marner,  more  bitterly  than 
ever.  "How'll  she  feel  just  the  same  for  me  as  she 
does  now,  when  we  eat  o'  the  same  bit,  and  drink  o' 
the  same  cup,  and  think  o'  the  same  things  from  one 
day's  end  to  another?  Just  the  same?  that's  idle 
talk.    You'd  cut  us  i'  two." 

Godfrey,  unqualified  by  experience  to  discern  the 
pregnancy  of  Marner's  simple  words,  felt  rather  angry 
again.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  weaver  was  very 
selfish  (a  judgment  readily  passed  by  those  who  have 
never  tested  their  own  power  of  sacrifice)  to  oppose 
what  was  undoubtedly  for  Eppie's  welfare;  and  he 
felt  himself  called  upon,  for  her  sake,  to  assert  his 
authority. 

"  I  should  have  thought,  Marner,"  he  said,  severely 
— "I  should  have  thought  your  affection  for  Eppie 
would  have  made  you  rejoice  in  what  was  for  her 
good,  even  if  it  did  call  upon  you  to  give  up  some- 
thing. You  ought  to  remember  that  your  own  life  is 
uncertain,  and  that  she's  at  an  age  now  when  her  lot 
may  soon  be  fixed  in  a  way  very  different  from  what 
it  would  be  in  her  father's  home:  she  may  marry 
some  low  working-man,  and  then,  whatever  I  might 
do  for  her,  I  couldn't  make  her  well  off.  You're  put- 
ting yourself  in  the  way  of  her  welfare ;  and  though 
I'm  sorry  to  hurt  you  after  what  you've  done,  and 
what  I've  left  undone,  I  feel  now  it's  my  duty  to  in- 
sist on  taking  care  of  my  own  daughter.  I  want  to 
do  my  duty." 


SILAS  MAKNER.  249 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  it  were  Silas  or 
Eppie  that  was  most  deeply  stirred  by  this  last  speech 
of  Godfrey's.  Thought  had  been  very  busy  in  Eppie 
as  she  listened  to  the  contest  between  her  old  long- 
loved  father  and  this  new,  unfamiliar  father,  who  had 
suddenly  come  to  fill  the  place  of  that  black  feature- 
less shadow  which  had  held  the  ring  and  placed  it  on 
her  mother's  finger.  Her  imagination  had  darted 
backward  in  conjectures,  and  forward  in  previsions, 
of  what  this  revealed  fatherhood  implied ;  and  there 
were  words  in  Godfrey's  last  speech  which  helped  to 
make  the  previsions  especially  definite.  Not  that 
these  thoughts,  either  of  past  or  future,  determined 
her  resolution — that  was  determined  by  the  feelings 
which  vibrated  to  every  word  Silas  had  uttered ;  but 
they  raised,  even  apart  from  these  feelings,  a  repulsion 
towards  the  offered  lot  and  the  newly-revealed  father. 

Silas,  on  the  other  hand,  was  again  stricken  in  con- 
science, and  alarmed  lest  Godfrey's  accusation  should 
be  true — lest  he  should  be  raising  his  own  will  as  an 
obstacle  to  Eppie's  good.  For  many  moments  he  was 
mute,  struggling  for  the  self-conquest  necessary  to  the 
uttering  of  the  difficult  words.  They  came  out  trem- 
ulously. 

"  I'll  say  no  more.  Let  it  be  as  you  will.  Speak 
to  the  child.     I'll  hinder  nothing." 

Even  Nancy,  with  all  the  acute  sensibility  of  her 
own  affections,  shared  her  husband's  view,  that  Mar- 
ner  was  not  justified  in  his  wish  to  retain  Eppie,  after 
her  real  father  had  avowed  himself.  She  felt  that  it 
was  a  very  hard  trial  for  the  poor  weaver,  but  Nancy's 
code  allowed  no  question  that  a  father  by  blood  must 

L2 


250  SILAS  MARNER. 

have  a  claim  above  that  of  any  foster-father.  Besides, 
Nancy,  used  all  her  life  to  plenteous  circumstances 
and  the  privileges  of  "  respectability,"  could  not  enter 
into  the  pleasures  which  early  nurture  and  habit  con- 
nect with  all  the  little  aims  and  efforts  of  the  poor  who 
are  born  poor :  to  her  mind,  Eppie,  in  being  restored 
to  her  birthright,  was  entering  on  a  too  long  withheld 
but  unquestionable  good.  Hence  she  heard  Silas's 
last  words  with  relief,  and  thought,  as  Godfrey  did, 
that  their  wish  was  achieved. 

"  Eppie,  my  dear,"  said  Godfrey,  looking  at  his 
daughter,  not  without  some  embarrassment,  under  the 
sense  that  she  was  old  enough  to  judge  him,  "it'll  al- 
ways be  our  wish  that  you  should  show  your  love  and 
gratitude  to  one  who's  been  a  father  to  you  so  many 
years,  and  we  shall  want  to  help  you  to  make  him 
comfortable  in  every  way.  But  we  hope  you'll  come 
to  love  us  as  well ;  and  though  I  haven't  been  what  a 
father  should  have  been  to  you  all  these  years,  I  wish 
to  do  the  utmost  in  my  power  for  you  for  the  rest  of 
my  life,  and  provide  for  you  as  my  only  child.  And 
you'll  have  the  best  of  mothers  in  my  wife :  that'll  be 
a  blessing  you  haven't  known  since  you  were  old 
enough  to  know  it." 

"  My  dear,  you'll  be  a  treasure  to  me,"  said  Nancy, 
in  her  gentle  voice.  "We  shall  want  for  nothing 
when  we  have  our  daughter." 

Eppie  did  not  come  forward  and  curtsy,  as  she  had 
done  before.  She  held  Silas's  hand  in  hers,  and  grasped 
it  firmly — it  was  a  weaver's  hand,  with  a  palm  and 
finger-tips  that  were  sensitive  to  such  pressure — while 
she  spoke  with  colder  decision  than  before. 


SILAS  MAENEE.  251 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am — thank  yon,  sir — for  your  of- 
fers ;  they're  very  great,  and  far  above  my  wish.  For 
I  should  have  no  delight  i'  life  any  more  if  I  was 
forced  to  go  away  from  my  father,  and  knew  he  was 
sitting  at  home,  a-thinking  of  me  and  feeling  lone. 
"We've  been  used  to  be  happy  together  every  day,  and 
I  can't  think  o'  no  happiness  without  him.  And  he 
says  he'd  nobody  i'  the  world  till  I  was  sent  to  him, 
and  he'd  have  nothing  when  I  was  gone.  And  he's 
took  care  of  me  and  loved  me  from  the  first,  and  I'll 
cleave  to  him  as  long  as  he  lives,  and  nobody  shall 
ever  come  between  him  and  me." 

"But  you  must  make  sure,  Eppie,"  said  Silas,  in  a 
low  voice — "you  must  make  sure  as  you  won't  ever 
be  sorry,  because  you've  made  your  choice  to  stay 
among  poor  folks,  and  with  poor  clothes  and  things, 
when  you  might  ha'  had  everything  o'  the  best." 

His  sensitiveness  on  this  point  had  increased  as  he 
listened  to  Eppie's  words  of  faithful  affection. 

"  I  can  never  be  sorry,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "  I 
shouldn't  know  what  to  think  on  or  to  wish  for  with 
fine  things  about  me,  as  I  haven't  been  used  to.  And 
it  'ud  be  poor  work  for  me  to  put  on  things,  and  ride 
in  a  gig,  and  sit  in  a. place  at  church,  as  'ud  make  them 
as  I'm  fond  of  think  me  unfitting  company  for  'em. 
"What  could /care  for  then?" 

Nancy  looked  at  Godfrey  with  a  pained  question- 
ing glance.  But  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  floor, 
where  he  was  moving  the  end  of  his  stick,  as  if  he 
were  pondering  on  something  absently.  She  thought 
there  was  a  word  which  might  perhaps  come  better 
from  her  lips  than  from  his. 


252  SILAS  MARNER. 

"  What  you  say  is  natural,  my  dear  child — it's  nat- 
ural you  should  cling  to  those  who've  brought  you 
up,"  she  said,  mildly ;  "  but  there's  a  duty  you  owe 
to  your  lawful  father.  There's  perhaps  something  to 
be  given  up  on  more  sides  than  one.  When  your 
father  opens  his  home  to  you,  I  think  it's  right  you 
shouldn't  turn  your  back  on  it." 

"I  can't  feel  as  I've  got  any  father  but  one,"  said 
Eppie,  impetuously,  while  the  tears  gathered.  "I've 
allays  thought  of  a  little  home  where  he'd  sit  i'  the 
corner,  and  I  should  fend  and  do  everything  for  him : 
I  can't  think  o'  no  other  home.  I  wasn't  brought  up 
to  be  a  lady,  and  I  can't  turn  my  mind  to  it.  I  like 
the  working  folks,  and  their  houses,  and  their  ways. 
And,"  she  ended  passionately,  while  the  tears  fell, 
"  I'm  promised  to  marry  a  working  man,  as  '11  live 
with  father,  and  help  me  to  take  care  of  him." 

Godfrey  looked  up  at  Nancy  with  a  flushed  face 
and  a  smarting  dilation  of  the  eyes.  This  frustration 
of  a  purpose  towards  which  he  had  set  out  under  the 
exalted  consciousness  that  he  was  about  to  compen- 
sate in  some  degree  for  the  greatest  demerit  of  his 
life,  made  him  feel  the  air  of  the  room  stifling. 

"Let  us  go,"  he  said,  in  an  under  tone. 

"We  won't  talk  of  this  any  longer  now,"  said  Nan- 
cy, rising.  "  We're  your  well-wishers,  my  dear — and 
yours  too,  Marner.  We  shall  come  and  see  you  again. 
It's  getting  late  now." 

In  this  way  she  covered  her  husband's  abrupt  de- 
parture, for  Godfrey  had  gone  straight  to  the  door,  un- 
able to  say  more. 


SILAS  MARNER.  253 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Nancy  and  Godfrey  walked  home  tinder  the  star- 
light in  silence.  When  they  entered  the  oaken  par- 
lour, Godfrey  threw  himself  into  his  chair,  while 
Nancy  laid  down  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  stood  on 
the  hearth  near  her  husband,  unwilling  to  leave  him 
even  for  a  few  minutes,  and  yet  fearing  to  utter  any 
word  lest  it  might  jar  on  his  feeling.  At  last  God- 
frey turned  his  head  towards  her,  and  their  eyes  met, 
dwelling  in  that  meeting  without  any  movement  on 
either  side.  That  quiet  mutual  gaze  of  a  trusting 
husband  and  wife  is  like  the  first  moment  of  rest  or 
refuge  from  a  great  weariness  or  a  great  danger — not 
to  be  interfered  with  by  speech  or  action  which  would 
distract  the  sensations  from  the  fresh  enjoyment  of 
repose. 

But  presently  he  put  out  his  hand,  and  as  Nancy 
placed  hers  within  it,  he  drew  her  towards  him,  and 
said — 

"That's  ended!" 

She  bent  to  kiss  him,  and  then  said,  as  she  stood  by 
his  side, ("Yes,  I'm  afraid  we  must  give  up  the  hope 
of  having  her  for  a  daughter.  It  wouldn't  be  right 
to  want  to  force  her  to  come  to  us  against  her  will. 
We  can't  alter  her  bringing  up  and  what's  come  of  it."/' 

"No,"  said  Godfrey,  with  a  keen  decisiveness  of 
tone,  in  contrast  with  his  usually  careless  and  unem- 


254  SILAS  MA.RNER. 

phatic  speech — "there's  debts  we  can't  pay  like  money 
debts,  by  paying  extra  for  the  years  that  have  slipped 
by.  While  I've  been  putting  off  and  putting  off,  the 
trees  have  been  growing — it's  too  late  now.  ^Marner 
was  in  the  right  in  what  he  said  about  a  man's  turn- 
ing away  a  blessing  from  his  door:  it  falls  to  some- 
body else.  I  wanted  to  pass  for  childless  once,  Nan- 
cy— I  shall  pass  for  childless  now  against  my  wish.'^) 

Nancy  did  not  speak  immediately,  but  after  a  little 
while  she  asked — u  You  won't  make  it  known,  then, 
about  Eppie's  being  your  daughter  ?" 

"No — where  would  be  the  good  to  anybody? — 
only  harm.  (jE  must  do  what  I  can  for  her  in  the  state 
of  life  she  choosesl  I  must  see  who  it  is  she's  think- 
ing of  marrying.'3 
\  "  If  it  won't  do  any  good  to  make  the  thing  known," 
said  Nancy,  who  thought  she  might  now  allow  herself 
1  the  relief  of  entertaining  a  feeling  which  she  had  tried 
to  silence  before,  "I  should  be  very  thankful  for 
father  and  Priscilla  never  to  be  troubled  with  know- 
ing what  was  done  in  the  past,  more  than  about  Dun- 
sey :  it  can't  be  helped,  their  knowing  that." 

"  I  shall  put  it  in  my  will — I  think  I  shall  put  it  in 
my  will.  I  shouldn't  like  to  leave  anything  to  be 
found  out,  like  this  of  Dunsey,"  said  Godfrey,  medita- 
tively. "  But  I  can't  see  anything  but  difficulties  that 
'ud  come  from  telling  it  now.  I  must  do  what  I  can 
to  make  her  happy  in  her  own  way.  I've  a  notion," 
he  added,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  it's  Aaron  Win- 
throp  she  meant  she  was  engaged  to.  I  remember 
seeing  him  with  her  and  Marner  going  away  from 
church." 


SILAS  MAENER.  255 

u  Well,  he's  very  sober  and  industrious,"  said  Nan- 
cy, trying  to  view  the  matter  as  cheerfully  as  pos- 
sible. 

Godfrey  fell  into  thoughtfulness  again.  Presently 
he  looked  up  at  Nancy  sorrowfully,  and  said — 

M  She's  a  very  pretty,  nice  girl,  isn't  she,  Nancy?" 

"  Yes,  dear ;  and  with  just  your  hair  and  eyes :  I 
wondered  it  had  never  struck  me  before." 

"  I  think  she  took  a  dislike  to  me  at  the  thought 
of  my  being  her  father ;  I  could  see  a  change  in  her 
manner  after  that." 

"  She  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  not  looking  on  Mar- 
ner  as  her  father,"  said  Nancy,  not  wishing  to  confirm        tu 
hex  husband's  painful  impression.         .  ^jj^ 

si*  She  thinks  I  did  wrong  by  her  mother  as  well  as 
by  her.     She  thinks  me  worse  than  I  am.    But  she    I 
must  think  it :  she  can  never  know  all.     It's  part  of 
my  punishment,  Nancy,  for  my  daughter  to  dislike 
me.     I  should  never  have  got  into  that  trouble  if  I'd  >f^ 
been  true  to  you — if  I  hadn't  been  a  fool.    I'd  no      i^\ 
right  to  expect  anything  but  evil  could  come  of  that 
marriage,  and  when  I  shirked  doing  a  father's  part 
too." 

Nancy  was  silent :  her  spirit  of  rectitude  would  not 
let  her  try  to  soften  the  edge  of  what  she  felt  to  be  a 
just  compunction.  He  spoke  again  after  a  little  while, 
but  the  tone  was  rather  changed :  there  was  tender- 
ness mingled  with  the  previous  self-reproach.  fyrf 
f11  And  I  got  you,  Nancy,  in  spite  of  all ;  and  yet  I've 
been  grumbling  and  uneasy  because  I  hadn't  some- 
thing else — as  if  I  deserved  it.") 

"  You've  never  been  wanting  to  me,  Godfrey,"  said  ' 


256  SILAS  MARNER. 

Nancy,  with  quiet  sincerity.  "  My  only  trouble  would 
be  gone  if  you  resigned  yourself  to  the  lot  that's  been 
given  us." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  isn't  too  late  to  mend  a  bit  there. 
Though  it  is  too  late  to  mend  some  things,  say  what 
they  will." 


SILAS  MARNER.  257 


CHAPTEE  XXL 

The  next  morning,  when  Silas  and  Eppie  were 
ceated  at  their  breakfast,  he  said  to  her — 

"  Eppie,  there's  a  thing  I've  had  on  my  mind  to  do 
this  two  year,  and  now  the  money's  been  brought  back 
to  us,  we  can  do  it.  I've  been  turning  it  over  and 
over  in  the  night,  and  I  think  we'll  set  out  to-morrow, 
while  the  fine  days  last.  We'll  leave  the  house  and 
everything  for  your  godmother  to  take  care  on,  and 
we'll  make  a  little  bundle  o'  things  and  set  out." 

"Where  to  go,  daddy?"  said  Eppie,  in  much  sur- 
prise. 

"To  my  old  country — to  the  town  where  I  was 
born — up  Lantern  Yard.  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Paston, 
the  minister:  something  may  ha'  come  out  to  make 
'em  know  I  was  innicent  o'  the  robbery.  And  Mr. 
Paston  was  a  man  with  a  deal  o'  light — I  want  to 
speak  to  him  about  the  drawing  o'  the  lots.  And  I 
should  like  to  talk  to  him  about  the  religion  o'  this 
country-side,  for  I  partly  think  he  doesn't  know  on  it." 

Eppie  was  very  joyful,  for  there  was  the  prospect 
not  only  of  wonder  and  delight  at  seeing  a  strange 
country,  but  also  of  coming  back  to  tell  Aaron  all 
about  it.  Aaron  was  so  much  wiser  than  she  was 
about  most  things — it  would  be  rather  pleasant  to 
have  this  little  advantage  over  him.  Mrs.  Winthrop, 
though  possessed  with  a  dim  fear  of  dangers  attend- 


258  SILAS  MARNER. 

ant  on  so  long  a  journey,  and  requiring  many  assur- 
ances that  it  would  not  take  them  out  of  the  region 
of  carrier's  carts  and  slow  waggons,  was  nevertheless 
well  pleased  that  Silas  should  revisit  his  own  country, 
and  find  out  if  he  had  been  cleared  from  that  false  ac- 
cusation. 

"  You'd  be  easier  in  your  mind  for  the  rest  o'  your 
life,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly — "that  you  would. 
And  if  there's  any  light  to  be  got  up  the  yard  as  you 
talk  on,  we've  need  of  it  i'  this  world,  and  I'd  be  glad 
on  it  myself,  if  you  could  bring  it  back." 

So,  on  the  fourth  day  from  that  time,  Silas  and  Ep- 
pie,  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  with  a  small  bundle  tied 
in  a  blue  linen  handkerchief,  were  making  their  way 
through  the  streets  of  a  great  manufacturing  town. 
Silas,  bewildered  by  the  changes  thirty  years  had 
brought  Over  his  native  place,  had  stopped  several 
persons  in  succession  to  ask  them  the  name  of  this 
town,  that  he  might  be  sure  he  \yas  not  under  a  mis- 
take about  it. 

"  Ask  for  Lantern  Yard,  father — ask  the  gentleman 
with  the  tassels  on  his  shoulders  a-standing  at  the 
shop-door ;  he  isn't  in  a  hurry  like  the  rest,"  said  Ep- 
pie,  in  some  distress  at  her  father's  bewilderment,  and 
ill  at  ease,  besides,  amidst  the  noise,  the  movement, 
and  the  multitude  of  strange  indifferent  faces. 

"  Eh,  my  child,  he  won't  know  anything  about  it," 
said  Silas ;  "  gentlefolks  didn't  ever  go  up  the  yard. 
But  happen  somebody  can  tell  me  which  is  the  way 
to  Prison  Street,  where  the  jail  is.  I  know  the  way 
out  o'  that  as  if  I'd  seen  it  yesterday." 

With  some  difficulty,  after  many  turnings  and  new 


SILAS  MARNER.  259 

inquiries,  they  reached  Prison  Street ;  and  the  grim 
walls  of  the  jail,  the  first  object  that  answered  to  any 
image  in  Silas's  memory,  cheered  him  with  the  certi- 
tude, which  no  assurance  of  the  town's  name  had  hith- 
erto given  him,  that  he  was  in  his  native  place. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  drawing  a  long  breath,  "there's  the 
jail,  Eppie ;  that's  just  the  same :  I  aren't  afraid  now. 
It's  the  third  turning  on  the  left  hand  from  the  jail 
doors :  that's  the  way  we  must  go." 

11 0,  what  a  dark  ugly  place !"  said  Eppie.  "  How 
it  hides  the  sky!  It's  worse  than  the  Workhouse. 
I'm  glad  you  don't  live  in  this  town  now,  father.  Is 
Lantern  Yard  like  this  street?" 

"My  precious  child,"  said  Silas,  smiling,  "it  isn't 
a  big  street  like  this.  I  never  was  easy  i'  this  street 
myself,  but  I  was  fond  o'  Lantern  Yard.  .  The  shops 
here  are  all  altered,  I  think — I  can't  make  'em  out ; 
but  I  shall  know  the  turning,  because  it's  the  third." 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction,  as 
they  came  to  a  narrow  alley.  "  And  then  we  must 
go  to  the  left  again,  and  then  straight  for'ard  for  a  bit, 
up  Shoe  Lane;  and  then  we  shall  be  at  the  entry 
next  to  the  o'erhanging  window,  where  there's  the 
nick  in  the  road  for  the  water  to  run.  Eh,  I  can  see 
it  all." 

"  0  father,  I'm  like  as  if  I  was  stifled,"  said  Eppie. 
"  I  couldn't  ha'  thought  as  any  folks  lived  i'  this  way, 
so  close  together.  How  pretty  the  Stone-pits  'ull  look 
when  we  get  back !" 

"It  looks  comical  to  me,  child,  now — and  smells 
bad.     I  can't  think  as  it  usened  to  smell  so." 

Here  and  there  a  sallow  begrimed  face  looked  out 


260  SILAS  MARNER. 

from  a  gloomy  doorway  at  the  strangers,  and  increased 
Eppie's  uneasiness,  so  that  it  was  a  longed-for  relief 
when  they  issued  from  the  alleys  into  Shoe  Lane, 
where  there  was  a  broader  strip  of  sky. 

"Dear  heart!"  said  Silas,  "why,  there's  people 
coming  out  o'  the  Yard  as  if  they'd  been  to  chapel  at 
this  time  o'  day — a  weekday  noon !" 

Suddenly  he  started  and  stood  still  with  a  look  of 
distressed  amazement  that  alarmed  Eppie.  They  were 
before  an  opening  in  front  of  a  large  factory,  from 
which  men  and  women  were  streaming  for  their  mid- 
day meal. 

"Father,"  said  Eppie,  clasping  his  arm,  "what's 
the  matter?" 

But  she  had  to  speak  again  and  again  before  Silas 
could  answer. 

"  It's  gone,  child,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  strong  agita- 
tion— "  Lantern  Yard's  gone.  It  must  ha'  been  here, 
because  here's  the  house  with  the  o'erhanging  window 
— I  know  that — it's  just  the  same ;  but  they've  made 
this  new  opening ;  and  see  that  big  factory !  It's  all 
gone — chapel  and  all." 

"Come  into  that  little  brushshop  and  sit  down, 
father — they'll  let  you  sit  down,"  said  Eppie,  always 
on  the  watch  lest  one  of  her  father's  strange  attacks 
should  come  on.  "Perhaps  the  people  can  tell  you 
all  about  it." 

But  neither  from  the  brushmaker,  who  had  come  to 
Shoe  Lane  only  ten  years  ago,  when  the  factory  was 
already  built,  nor  from  any  other  source  within  his 
reach,  could  Silas  learn  anything  of  the  old  Lantern 
Yard  friends,  or  of  Mr.  Paston,  the  minister. 


SILAS  MARNER.  261 

"The  old  place  is  all  swep'  away,"  Silas  said  to 
Dolly  Winthrop  on  the  night  of  his  return — "the  lit- 
tle graveyard  and  everything.  The  old  home's  gone; 
I've  no  home  but  this  now.  I  shall  never  know 
whether  they  got  at  the  truth  o'  the  robbery,  nor 
whether  Mr.  Paston  could  ha'  given  me  any  light 
about  the  drawing  o'  the  lots.  It's  dark  to  me,  Mrs. 
Winthrop,  that  is ;  I  doubt  it'll  be  dark  to  the  last." 

"Well,  yes,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  who  sat 
with  a  placid  listening  face,  now  bordered  by  grey 
hairs ;  "I doubt  it  may.  It's  the  will  o'  Them  above 
as  a  many  things  should  be  dark  to  us;  but  there's 
some  things  as  I've  never  felt  i'  the  dark  about,  and 
they're  mostly  what  comes  i'  the  day's  work.  You 
were  hard  done  by  that  once,  Master  Marner,  and  it 
seems  as  you'll  never  know  the  rights  of  it ;  but  that 
doesn't  hinder  there  being  a  rights,  Master  Marner, 
for  all  it's  dark  to  you  and  me." 

"No,"  said  Silas,  "no;  that  doesn't  hinder.  Since 
the  time  the  child  was  sent  to  me  and  I've  come  to 
love  her  as  myself,  I've  had  light  enough  to  trusten 
by ;  and  now  she  says  she'll  never  leave  me.  I  think 
I  shall  trusten  till  I  die." 


262  SILAS  MARNER. 


CONCLUSION. 

There  was  one  time  of  the  year  which  was  held  in 
Eaveloe  to  be  especially  suitable  for  a  wedding.  It 
was  when  the  great  lilacs  and  laburnums  in  the  old- 
fashioned  gardens  showed  their  golden  and  purple 
wealth  above  the  lichen-tinted  walls,  and  when  there 
were  calves  still  young  enough  to  want  bucketfuls  of 
fragrant  milk.  People  were  not  so  busy  then  as  they 
must  become  when  the  full  cheese-making  and  the 
mowing  had  set  in ;  and  besides,  it  was  a  time  when  a 
light  bridal  dress  could  be  worn  with  comfort  and  seen 
to  advantage. 

Happily  the  sunshine  fell  more  warmly  than  usual 
on  the  lilac  tufts  the  morning  that  Eppie  was  married, 
for  her  dress  was  a  very  light  one.  She  had  often 
thought,  though  with  a  feeling  of  renunciation,  that 
the  perfection  of  a  wedding-dress  would  be  a  white 
cotton,  with  the  tiniest  pink  sprig  at  wide  intervals ; 
so  that  when  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass  begged  to  provide 
one,  and  asked  Eppie  to  choose  what  it  should  be, 
previous  meditation  had  enabled  her  to  give  a  decided 
answer  at  once. 

Seen  at  a  little  distance  as  she  walked  across  the 
churchyard  and  down  the  village,  she  seemed  to  be 
attired  in  pure  white,  and  her  hair  looked  like  the 
dash  of  gold  on  a  lily.     One  hand  was  on  her  hus- 


SILAS  MARKER.  263 

band's  arm,  and  with  the  other  she  clasped  the  hand 
of  her  father  Silas. 

"You  won't  be  giving  me  away,  father,"  she  had 
said  before  they  went  to  church ;  "  you'll  only  be  tak- 
ing Aaron  to  be  a  son  to  you." 

Dolly  Winthrop  walked  behind  with  her  husband : 
and  there  ended  the  little  bridal  procession. 

There  were  many  eyes  to  look  at  it,  and  Miss  Pris- 
cilla  Lammeter  was  glad  that  she  and  her  father  had 
happened  to  drive  up  to  the  door  of  the  Eed  House 
just  in  time  to  see  this  pretty  sight.  They  had  come 
to  keep  Nancy  company  to-day,  because  Mr.  Cass  had 
had  to  go  away  to  Lytherly,  for  special  reasons.  That 
seemed  to  be  a  pity,  for  otherwise  he  might  have  gone, 
as  Mr.  Crackenthorp  and  Mr.  Osgood  certainly  would, 
to  look  on  at  the  wedding-feast  which  he  had  ordered 
at  the  Kainbow,  naturally  feeling  a  great  interest  in 
the  "Weaver  who  had  been  wronged  by  one  of  his  own 
family. 

"  I  could  ha'  wished  Nancy  had  had  the  luck  to 
find  a  child  like  that  and  bring  her  up,"  said  Priscilla 
to  her  father  as  they  sat  in  the  gig ;  "I  should  ha' 
had  something  young  to  think  of  then,  besides  the 
lambs  and  the  calves." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Lammeter ;  "  one 
feels  that  as  one  gets  older.  Things  look  dim  to  old 
folks :  they'd  need  have  some  young  eyes  about  'em, 
to  let  'em  know  the  world's  the  same  as  it  used  to  be." 

Nancy  came  out  now  to  welcome  her  father  and 
sister,  and  the  wedding  group  had  passed  on  beyond 
the  Red  House  to  the  humbler  part  of  the  village. 

Dolly  Winthrop  was  the  first  to  divine  that  old  Mr. 


264  SILAS  MARNER. 

Macey,  who  had  been  set  in  his  arm-chair  outside  his 
own  door,  would  expect  some  special  notice  as  they 
passed,  since  he  was  too  old  to  be  at  the  wedding- 
feast. 

"  Mr.  Macey's  looking  for  a  word  from  us,"  said 
Dolly ;  "  he'll  be  hurt  if  we  pass  him  and  say  nothing 
— and  him  so  racked  with  rheumatiz." 

So  they  turned  aside  to  shake  hands  with  the  old 
man.  He  had  looked  forward  to  the  occasion,  and 
had  his  premeditated  speech. 

11  Well,  Master  Marner,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 
quavered  a  good  deal,  "  I've  lived  to  see  my  words 
come  true.  I  was  the  first  to  say  there  was  no  harm 
in  you,  though  your  looks  might  be  agin'  you ;  and  I 
was  the  first  to  say  you'd  get  your  money  back.  And 
it's  nothing  but  rightful  as  you  should.  And  I'd  ha' 
said  the  'Amens,'  and  willing,  at  the  holy  matrimo- 
ny ;  but  Tookey's  done  it  a  good  while  now,  and  I 
hope  you'll  have  none  the  worse  luck." 

In  the  open  yard  before  the  Kainbow,  the  party  of 
guests  were  already  assembled,  though  it  was  still 
nearly  an  hour  before  the  appointed  feast-time.  But 
by  this  means  they  could  not  only  enjoy  the  slow  ad- 
vent of  their  pleasure ;  they  had  also  ample  leisure  to 
talk  of  Silas  Marner's  strange  history,  and  arrive  by 
due  degrees  at  the  conclusion  that  he  had  brought  a 
blessing  on  himself  by  acting  like  a  father  to  a  lone 
motherless  child.  Even  the  farrier  did  not  negative 
this  sentiment :  on  the  contrary,  he  took  it  up  as  pe- 
culiarly his  own,  and  invited  any  hardy  person  pres- 
ent to  contradict  him.  But  he  met  with  no  contra- 
diction ;  and  all  deferences  among  the  company  were 


SILAS  MARNER.  265 

merged  in  a  general  agreement  with  Mr.  Snail's  senti- 
ment, that  when  a  man  had  deserved  his  good  luck, 
it  was  the  part  of  his  neighbours  to  wish  him  joy. 

As  the  bridal  group  approached,  a  hearty  cheer 
was  raised  in  the  Eainbow  yard ;  and  Ben  Winthrop, 
whose  jokes  had  retained  their  acceptable  flavour, 
found  it  agreeable  to  turn  in  there  and  receive  con- 
gratulations ;  not  requiring  the  proposed  interval  of 
quiet  at  the  Stone-pits  before  joining  the  company. 

Eppie  had  a  larger  garden  than  she  had  ever  ex- 
pected there  now ;  and  in  other  ways  there  had  been 
alterations  at  the  expense  of  Mr.  Cass,  the  landlord,  to 
suit  Silas's  larger  family.  For  he  and  Eppie  had  de- 
clared that  they  would  rather  stay  at  the  Stone-pits 
than  go  to  any  new  home.  The  garden  was  fenced 
with  stones  on  two  sides,  but  in  front  there  was  an 
open  fence,  through  which  the  flowers  shone  with 
answering  gladness,  as  the  four  united  people  came 
within  sight  of  them. 

"0  father,"  said  Eppie,  "what  a  pretty  home  ours 
is !     I  think  nobody  could  be  happier  than  we  are." 

M 


THE  END. 


Mr.  Motley,  the  American  historian  of  the  United  Netherlands— we  owe  him 
English  homage. — London  Times. 

"  As  interesting  as  a  romance,  and  as  reliable  as  a  proposition  of  Euclid." 


History  of 
The  United  Netherlands. 

FBOM   THE  I>EATH  OF  WILLIAM  THE   SILENT  TO  THE   SYNOD  OF  DOBT.      WITH   A 

FULL  VIEW  OF  THE  ENGLISH-DUTCH   6TBCGGLE  AGAINST   STAIN,  AND 

OF  THE  OBIGIN  AND  DESTRUCTION  OF  THE  SPANISH 

ARMADA. 

By  JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY,  LL.D.,  D.C.L., 

Corresponding  Member  of  the  Institute  of  France,  Author  of  "The  Rise  of  the 
Dutch  Republic." 

With  Portraits  and  Map. 

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Critical  Notices. 

His  living  and  truthful  picture  of  events.— Quarterly  Review  (London),  Jan., 
1861. 

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none  of  them  can  be  ranked  above  these  volumes  in  the  grand  qnalities  of  interest, 
accuracy,  and  truth. — Edinburgh  Quarterly  Revieic,  Jan.,  1S61. 

Thi3  noble  work Westminster  Review  (London). 

One  of  the  most  fascinating  as  well  as  important  histories  of  the  century Cor. 

N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

The  careful  study  of  these  volumes  will  infallibly  afford  a  feast  both  rich  and 
rare Baltimore  Republican. 

Already  takes  a  rank  among  standard  work3  of  history.— London  Critic. 

Mr.  Motley's  prose  epic. — London  Spectator. 

Its  pages  are  pregnant  with  instruction — London  Literary  Gazette. 

We  may  profit  by  almost  every  page  of  his  narrative.  All  the  topics  which  agi- 
tate us  now  are  more  or  less  vividly  presented  in  the  History  of  the  United  Nether- 
lands  New  York  Times. 

Bears  on  every  page  marks  of  the  same  vigorous  mind  that  produced  "The  Rise 
of  the  Dutch  Republic ;"  but  the  new  work  is  riper,  mellower,  and  though  equally 
racy  of  the  soil,  softer  flavored.  The  inspiring  idea  which  breathes  through  Mr. 
Motley's  histories  and  colors  the  whole  texture  of  his  narrative,  is  the  grandeur  of 
that  memorable  struggle  in  the  16th  century  by  which  the  human  mind  broke  the 
thraldom  of  religious  intolerance  and  achieved  its  independence — The  World,  N.  Y. 

The  name  of  Motley  now  stands  in  the  very  front  rank  of  living  historians.  Hi3 
Dittch  Republic  took  the  world  by  surprise ;  but  the  favorable  verdict  then  given 
is  now  only  the  more  deliberately  confirmed  on  the  publication  of  the  continued 
story  under  the  title  of  the  His'ory  of  the  United  Netherlands.  All  the  nerve, 
and  power,  and  substance  of  juicy  life  are  there,  lending  a  charm  to  every  page. — 
Church  Journal,  N.  Y 

Motley,  indeed,  has  produced  a  prose  epic,  and  his  fighting  scenes  are  as  real, 
Bpirited,  and  life-like  as  the  combats  in  the  Iliad The  Press  (Phila.). 

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"  They  do  honor  to  American  Literature,  and  would  do 
honor  to  the  Literature  of  any  Country  in  the  World." 

THE   RISE   OF 
THE    DUTCH    REPUBLIC. 

By  JOHN  LOTHKOP  MOTLEY. 

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We  regard  this  Avork  as  the  best  contribution  to  modern  history  that  has  yet 
been  made  by  an  American. — Methodist  Quarterly  Review. 

The  "History  of  the  Dutch  Republic"  is  a  great  gift  to  us;  but  the  heart  and 
earnestness  that  beat  through  all  its  pages  are  greater,  for  they  give  us  most 
timely  inspiration  to  vindicate  the  true  ideas  of  our  country,  and  to  compose  an 
able  history  of  our  own. — Christian  Examiner  (Boston). 

This  work  bears  on  its  face  the  evidences  of  scholarship  and  research.  The 
arrangement  is  clear  and  effective ;  the  style  energetic,  lively,  and  often  brilliant 
*  *  *  Mr.  Motley's  instructive  volumes  will,  we  trust,  have  a  circulation  commen- 
surate with  their  interest  and  value.—  Protestant  Episcopal  Quarterly  Review. 

To  the  illustration  of  this  most  interesting  period  Mr.  Motley  has  brought  the 
matured  powers  of  a  vigorous  and  brilliant  mind,  and  the  abundant  fruits  of  pa- 
tient and  judicious  study  and  deep  reflection.  The  result  is,  one  of  the  most 
important  contributions  to  h'~torical  literature  that  have  been  made  in  this  coun- 
try.—North  American  Review. 

We  would  conclude  this  notice  by  earnestly  recommending  our  readers  to  pro- 
cure for  themselves  this  truly  great  and  admirable  work,  by  the  production  of 
which  the  auther  has  conferred  no  less  honor  upon  his  country  than  he  has  won 
praise  and  fame  for  himself,  and  than  which,  we  can  assure  them,  they  can  find 
nothing  more  attractive  or  interesting  within  the  compass  of  modern  literature. 
— Evangelical  Review. 

It  is  not  often  that  we  have  the  pleasure  of  commending  to  the  attention  of  the 
lover  of  books  a  work  of  such  extraordinary  aud  unexceptionable  excellence  as 
this  one. — Universalist  Quarterly  Review. 

There  are  an  elevation  and  a  classic  polish  in  these  volumes,  and  a  felicity  of 
grouping  and  of  portraiture,  which  invest  the  subject  with  the  attractions  of  a 
living  and  stirring  episode  in  the  grand  historic  drama. — Southern  Methodist 
Quarterly  Review. 

The  author  writes  with  a  genial  glow  and  love  of  his  subject— Presbyterian 
Quarterly  Review. 

Mr.  Motley  is  a  sturdy  Republican  and  a  hearty  Protestant  His  style  is  live- 
ly and  picturesque,  and  his  work  is  an  honor  and  an,  important  accession  to  our 
national  literature. — Church  Review. 

Mr.  Motley's  work  is  an  important  one,  the  result  of  profound  research,  sincere 
convictions,  sound  principles,  and  manly  sentiments;  and  even  those  who  are 
most  familiar  with  the  history  of  the  period  will  find  in  it  a  fresh  and  vivid  ad- 
dition to  their  previous  knowledge.  It  does  honor  to  American  literature,  and 
would  do  honor  to  the  literature  of  any  country  in  the  world. — Edinburgh  Re- 
view. 

A  serious  chasm  in  English  historical  literature  has  been  (by  this  book)  very 
remarkably  filled.  *  *  *  A  history  as  complete  as  industry  and  genius  can  make 
it  now  lies  before  us,  of  the  first  twenty  years  of  the  revolt  of  the  United  Prov. 
inces.  *  *  *  All  the  essentials  of  a  great  writer  Mr.  Motley  eminently  possesses. 
His  mind  is  broad,  his  industry  unwearied.  In  power  of  dramatic  description 
no  modern  historian,  except,  perhaps,  Mr.  Carlyle,  surpasses  him,  and  in  analy- 
sis of  character  he  is  elaborate  and  distinct— Westminster  Review. 


MOTLEY'S    RISE    OF    THE    DUTCH    REPUBLIC 

It  is  a  work  of  real  historical  value,  the  result  of  accurate  criticism,  written 
in  a  liberal  spirit,  and  from  first  to  last  deeply  interesting.—  Athenaeum. 

The  style  is  excellent,  clear,  vivid,  eloquent;  and  the  industry  with  which 
original  sources  have  been  investigated,  and  through  which  new  light  has  been 
shed  over  perplexed  incidents  and  characters,  entitles  Mr.  Motley  to  a  high  rank 
in  the  literature  of  an  age  peculiarly  rich  in  history.— North  British  Review. 

It  abounds  in  new  information,  and,  as  a  first  work,  commands  a  very  cordial 
recognition,  not  merely  of  the  promise  it  gives,  but  of  the  extent  and  importance 
of  the  labor  actually  performed  on  it— London  Examiner. 

Mr.  Motley's  "History"  is  a  work  of  which  any  country  might  be  proud.— 
Press  (London). 

Mr.  Motley's  History  will  be  a  standard  book  of  reference  in  historical  litera- 
ture.— London  Literary  Gazette. 

Mr.  Motley  has  searched  the  whole  range  of  historical  documents  necessary  to 
the  composition  of  his  work.—  London  Leader. 

This  is  really  a  great  work.  It  belongs  to  the  class  of  books  in  which  we 
range  our  Grotes,  Milmans,  Merivales,  and  Macaulays,  as  the  glories  of  English 
literature  in  the  department  of  history.  *  *  *  Mr.  Motley's  gifts  as  a  historical 
writer  are  among  the  highest  and  rarest. — Nonco?iformut  (London). 

Mr.  Motley's  volumes  will  well  repay  perusal.  *  *  *  For  his  learning,  his  liberal 
tone,  and  his  generous  enthusiasm,  we  heartily  commend  him,  and  bid  him  good 
6peed  for  the  remainer  of  his  interesting  and  heroic  narrative. — Saturday  Review. 

The  story  is  a  noble  one,  and  is  worthily  treated.  *  *  *  Mr.  Motley  has  had  the 
patience  to  unravel,  with  unfailing  perseverance,  the  thousand  intricate  plots  of 
the  adversaries  of  the  Prince  of  Orange ;  but  the  details  and  the  literal  extracts 
which  he  has  derived  from  original  documents,  and  transferred  to  his  pages, 
give  a  truthful  color  and  a  picturesque  effect,  which  are  especially  charming. — 
London  Daily  News. 

M.  Lothrop  Motley  dans  son  magnifique  tableau  de  la  formation  de  notre  Re- 
publique. — G.  Geoex  Vas  Peinsteeeb. 

Our  accomplished  countryman,  Mr.  J.  Lothrop  Motley,  who,  during  the  last 
five  years,  for  the  better  prosecution  of  his  labors,  has  established  his  residence 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  scenes  of  his  narrative.  No  one  acquainted  with  the 
fine  powers  of  mind  possessed  by  this  scholar,  and  the  earnestness  with  which  he 
has  devoted  himself  to  the  task,  can  doubt  that  he  will  do  full  justice  to  his  im- 
portant but  difficult  subject — W.  H.  Peescoit. 

The  production  of  such  a  work  as  this  astonishes,  while  it  gratifies  the  pride 
of  the  American  reader. — N.  Y.  Observer. 

The  "  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic"  at  once,  and  by  acclamation,  takes  its 
place  by  the  "  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,"  as  a  work  which,  wheth- 
er for  research,  substance,  or  style,  will  never  be  superseded.— N.  Y.  Albion. 

A  work  upon  which  all  who  read  the  English  language  may  congratulate 
themselves.—  New  Yorker  Handels  Zeitung. 

Mr.  Motley's  place  is  now  (alluding  to  this  book)  with  Hallam  and  Lord  Ma- 
hon,  Alison  and  Macaulay  in  the  Old  Countiy,  and  with  Washington  Irving, 
Prescott,  and  Bancroft  in  this.—  N.  Y.  Times. 

The  authoritv,  in  the  English  tongue,  for  the  history  of  the  period  and  people 
to  which  it  refers.— .V.  Y.  Courier  and  Enquirer. 

This  work  at  once  places  the  author  on  the  list  of  American  historians  which 
has  been  so  signally  illustrated  by  the  names  of  Irving,  Prescott,  Bancroft,  and 
Hildreth. — Boston  Times. 

The  work  is  a  noble  one,  and  a  most  desirable  acquisition  to  our  historical  lit- 
erature.— Mobile  Advertiser. 

.    Such  a  work  is  an  honor  to  its  author,  to  his  country,  and  to  the  age  in  which 
it  was  written. — Ohio  Farmer. 

Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 

Franklin  Square,  New  York. 


Haepeb  &  Bbothers  will  send  the  above  Work  by  Mail  (postage  paid  (for  any 
distance  in  the  United  States  under  3000  miles),  on  receipt  of  the  Money. 


HISTORY 

OF   TIIB 

UMTED  STATES  OF  AMERICA. 

By  BICHAED  HILDKETH. 


First  Series. — From  the  First  Settlement  of  the  Country  to  the 
Adoption  of  the  Federal  Constitution.  3  vols.  8vo,  Muslin, 
$6  00 ;  Sheep,  $6  75 ;  Half  Calf,  $7  50. 

Second  Series.— From  the  Adoption  of  the  Federal  Constitution 
to  the  End  of  the  Sixteenth  Congress.  3  vols.  8vo,  Muslin, 
$G  00;  Sheep,  $6  75 ;  Half  Calf,  $7  50. 

The  first  attempt  at  a  complete  history  of  the  United  States.  The  reader  who 
desires  to  inform  himself  in  all  the  particulars,  military  or  political,  of  the 
American  Revolution,  will  find  that  they  have  been  scrupulously  collected  for 
him  by  Mr.  Hildreth.—  London  Athenceiim. 

It  has  condensed  into  consecutive  narrative  the  substance  of  hundreds  of 
volumes. — London  Literary  Gazette. 

The  history  of  the  Revolution  is  clearly  and  succinctly  told. — N.  A.  Review. 
Mr.  Hildreth' s  sources  of  information  have  evidently  been  ample  and  various, 
and  intelligently  examined,  his  materials  arranged  with  a  just  idea  of  their  im- 
portance in  the  story,  while  his  judgments  are  well  considered,  unbiassed,  and 
reliable.     His  style  is  clear,  forcible,  and  sententious. — Christian  Register. 

Mr.  Hildreth  is  a  very  concise,  vigorous,  and  impartial  writer.  His  entire 
history  is  very  accurate  and  interesting,  and  well  worthy  a  place  in  every  Amer- 
ican library.— Louisville  Journal. 

He  is  laborious,  conscientious,  and  accurate.  As  a  methodical  and  very  full 
narrative,  its  value  is  undoubted.  — New  Orleans  Bee. 

The  calmness  and  ability  with  which  he  has  presented  his  narrative  will  give 
his  work  rank  among  the  standard  histories  of  the  country. — Watchman  and 
Observer. 

*  *  We  have,  therefore,  read  his  book  with  distrust.  But  we  are  bound  in 
candor  to  say  that  it  seems  to  us  valuable  and  very  fair.  Mr.  Hildreth  has  con- 
fined himself  to,  as  far  as  possible,  a  dispassionate  collection  of  facts  from  the 
documents  he  has  consulted  and  copied,  and  his  work  fills  a  void  that  has  pensi- 
bly  been  felt  in  private  libraries.  As  a  documentary  history  of  the  United 
States,  we  are  free  to  commend  it. — JV.  Y.  Freeman's  Journal. 

Mr.  Hildreth  has  rendered  an  essential  and  permanent  service.— Providence 
Daily  Journal. 

The  volumes  will  be  regarded  as  indispensable— it  will  take  its  place  as  a 
standard  work.  The  author's  style  is  dignified,  perspicuous,  and  vivacious. — 
Church  Review. 

The  work  is  very  complete.  The  marginal  dates,  the  two  indexes,  and  run- 
ning heads  at  the  tops  of  the  pages,  render  it  very  convenient  for  reference, 
points  \rhich  scholars  will  find  all  important  for  utility.—  Newark  Sentinel  of 
Freedom. 


HILDEETH'S  HISTOEY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

We  should  like  to  know  what  other  book  upon  American  history,  or  even  upon 
any  limited  portion  of  it,  presents  any  thing  like  the  same  distinctness  of  view, 
or  can  at  all  compete  with  it  in  that  "lucid  order"  which  is  one  of  the  first  mer- 
its of  every  historical  work. — Boston  Atlas. 

His  work  fills  a  want,  and  is  therefore  most  welcome.  Its  positive  merits,  in 
addition  to  those  we  have  before  mentioned,  are  impartiality,  steadiness  of 
view,  clear  appreciation  of  character,  and,  in  poiut  of  style,  a  terseness  and  con- 
ciseness not  unlike  Tacitus,  with  not  a  little,  too,  of  Tacitean  vigor  of  thought, 
stern  sense  of  justice,  sharp  irony,  and  profound  wisdom. — Methodist  Quarterly 
Review. 

It  occupies  a  space  which  has  not  yet  been  filled,  and  exhibits  characteristics 
both  of  design  and  of  composition,  which  entitle  it  to  a  distinguished  place 
among  the  most  important  productions  of  American  genius  and  scholarship. 
"VVe  welcome  it  as  a  simple,  faithful,  lucid,  and  elegant  narrative  of  the  great 
events  of  American  history.  It  is  not  written  in  illustration  of  any  favorite 
theory,  it  is  not  the  expression  of  any  ideal  system,  but  an  honest  endeavor  to 
present  the  facts  in  question  in  the  pure,  uncolored  light  of  truth  and  reality. 
The  impartiality,  good  judgment,  penetration,  and  diligent  research  of  the  au- 
thor are  conspicuous  in  its  composition. — X.  Y.  Tribune. 

In  our  judgment,  this  is  the  ablest,  best,  and  most  judicious  popular  history 
of  the  United  States  that  has  yet  appeared.  It  will  be  a  standard  book  on 
American  history,  and  will  not  fail  to  secure  a  high  reputation  as  a  writer  to  its 
modest  and  unpretending  author.  —  Washington  Union. 

This  work  is  a  valuable  addition  to  our  historical  literature.  It  is  the  fruit 
of  wide  research  and  hard  labor.  It  has  those  features  of  severe  simplicity  and 
truthfulness  which  will  render  it  an  enduring  legacy  to  the  future. — Christian 
Watchman. 

Mr.  Hildreth's  work  will  be  a  standard  of  reference  for  the  student  of  Ameri- 
can history,  and  will  become  a  favorite  in  proportion  as  it  is  known. — Nat.  Era. 

His  narrative  is  lncid  and  succinct,  his  facts  carefully  ascertained  and  skill- 
fully grouped,  and  his  conclusions  on  all  mooted  questions  are  ably  sustained 
and  impartially  weighed. — Sew  Orleans  Bee.     , 

The  most  valuable  work  of  the  kind  yet  issued.  It  presents,  in  a  clear,  grace- 
ful, and  forcible  style,  a  full  and  faithful  picture  of  the  country  from  its  first 
settlement  down  to  the  end  of  the  Sixteenth  Congress.  It  is  marked  no  less  by 
its  completeness  than  its  accuracy  and  the  beauty  of  its  narrative. — Troy  Daily 
Whig. 

In  a  most  graphic,  terse,  and  elegant  style,  it  gives  the  history  of  each  state, 
with  its  institutions,  progress,  and  enterprise,  civil,  commercial,  and  agricul- 
tural, which  makes  the  book  a  valuable  addendum  to  the  historical  literatnre  of 
the  great  republic— St.  John's  Morning  News. 

No  better  chronicle  of  the  more  recent  periods  of  our  history  has  been  given. — 
Albany  Evening  Journal. 

The  prevailing  characteristic  of  Hildreth's  history  is  its  stern  and  inflexible 
impartiality. — Boston  Journal. 

The  author  has  shown  a  most  commendable  industry.— Baltimore  Patriot. 

The  chief  merits  of  Mr.  Hildreth's  work  are  fidelity  and  candor  of  spirit,  and 
perspicuity  and  terseness  of  style. — Southern  Literary  Gazette. 

It  is  a  plain,  dignified,  impartial,  and  fearless  exhibition  of  facts.  —  Genesee 
Evangelist. 

The  author's  grouping  of  men  and  events  is  skillful,  and  renders  his  rapid  nar- 
rative pleasant  reading. — N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

These  handsome  volumes  should  be  on  the  table  of  every  American  who  de- 
sires the  most  thorough  and  clear  report  of  our  nation's  history  yet  published. — 
Rochester  Democrat. 

The  history  is  a  reliable,  and,  in  all  respects,  an  admirable  one.— Ontario  Re- 
pository. 

The  author  makes  every  thing  plain  and  clear  which  he  touches. — Southern 
Christian  Advocate. 

A  history  of  the  United  States  that  could  be  regarded  by  all  men  as  a  standard 
of  authority,  as  well  as  a  model  of  impartial  labor. — Worcester  Palladium. 

A  work  which  should  be  in  every  American's  hands. — Springfield  Republican. 

His  style  is  clear  and  forcible,  and  his  work  is  very  valuable  on  account  of  the 
political  information  it  contains. — Savannah  Republican. 


HILDRETH'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

Written  with  candor,  brevity,  fidelity  to  facts,  and  simplicity  of  style  and  man- 
ner, and  forms  a  welcome  addition  to  tlie  library  of  the  nation. — Prot.  Churchman 

Mr.  Hildreth  is  a  bold  and  copious  writer.  His  work  is  valuable  for  the  im- 
mense amount  of  material  it  embodies.— JJe  Bow's  Review  of  the  Southern  and 
Western  States. 

We  may  safely  commend  Mr.  Hildreth' s  work  as  written  in  an  excellent  6tyle 
and  containing  a  vast  amount  of  valuable  information Albany  Argus.  ' 

His  style  is  vigorously  simple.      It  has  the  virtue  of  perspicuity  Zioris 

Herald. 

We  value  it  on  account  of  its  impartiality.  We  have  found  nothing  to  indi- 
cate the  least  desire  on  the  part  of  the  author  to  exalt  or  debase  any  man  or  any 
party.  His  very  patriotism,  though  high-principled  and  sincere,  is  sober  and 
discriminate,  and  appears  to  be  held  in  strong  check  by  the  controlling  recollec- 
tion that  he  is  writing  for  posterity,  and  that  if  the  facts  which  he  publishes 
will  not  honor  his  country  and  his  countrymen,  fulsome  adulation  will  not  add 
to  their  glory. — N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

We  are  confident  that  when  the  merits  of  this  history  come  to  be  known  and 
appreciated,  it  will  be  extensively  regarded  as  decidedly  superior  to  any  thing 
that  before  existed  on  American  history,  and  as  a  valuable  contribution  to 
American  authorship.  These  stately  volumes  will  be  an  ornament  to  any  libra- 
ry, and  no  intelligent  American  can  afford  to  be  without  the  work.  We  have 
nobly  patronized  the  great  English  history  of  the  age,  let  us  not  fail  to  appre- 
ciate and  patronize  an  American  history  so  respectable  and  valuable  as  this  cer- 
tainly is. — Biblical  Repository  {Bibliotheca  Sacra). 

This  work  professes  only  to  deal  in  facts;  it  is  a  book  of  records;  it  puts  to- 
gether clearly,  consecutively,  and,  we  believe,  with  strict  impartiality,  the  events 
of  American  history.  The  work  indicates  patient,  honest,  and  careful  research, 
systematic  arrangement,  and  lucid  exposition. — Home  Journal. 

To  exhibit  the  progress  of  the  country  from  infancy  to  maturity;  to  show 
the  actual  state  of  the  people,  the  real  character  of  their  laws  and  institutions, 
and  the  true  designs  of  their  leading  men,  at  different  periods,  and  to  relate  a 
sound,  unvarnished  tale  of  our  early  history,  has  been  his  design ;  and  we  are 
free  to  acknowledge  that  it  has  been  executed  with  marked  ability  and  triumph- 
ant success.  Every  lover  of  impartial  history  will  accord  to  Mr.  Hildreth  his 
due  meed  of  praise  for  the  able  and  honest  manner  in  which  he  has  given  the 
true  history  of  the  United  States. — Pennsylvanian. 

This  work  is  full  of  detail,  bears  marks  of  care  and  research,  and  is  written 
under  the  guidance  of  clear  sight  and  good  judgment  rather  than  of  theory, 
philosophical  or  historical,  or  of  prejudice  of  any  sort  whatever.  We  trust  that 
it  will  be  widely  read.— N.  Y.  Courier  and  Enquirer. 

We  pronounce  it  unsurpassed  as  a  full,  clear,  and  truthful  history  of  our 
country  so  far.  We  rejoice  that  a  work  so  important  to  our  nation  has  been  so 
ably  performed. — Literary  American. 

Interesting,  valuable,  and  very  attractive.  It  is  written  in  a  style  eminently 
clear  and  attractive,  and  presents  the  remarkable  history  which  it  records  in  a 
form  of  great  simplicity  and  with  graphic  force.     There  is  in  it  no  attempt  to 

Ealliate  what  is  wrong,  or  to  conceal  what  is  true.     It  is  a  life-like  and  reliable 
istory  of  the  most  remarkable  series  of  events  in  the  annals  of  the  world.— A'. 
Y.  Journal  of  Commerce. 
It  is  a  valuable  acquisition  to  American  literature.— Baltimore  American. 
The  history  of  our  country  with  a  scrupulous  regard  to  truth.—  Buffalo  Courier. 
We  believe  this  to  be  a  truthful,  judicious,  and  valuable  history,  worthy  of 
general  acceptation. — Philadelphia  North  American. 
The  first  complete  history  of  our  country. — Chronotype. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 

Franklin  Square,  New  York. 


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Harper's  Series  of 
School  and  Family  Readers. 

Consisting-  of  a  Primer  and  Seven  Readers. 
By  Marcius  Willson, 

Author  of  "A  Popular  Series  of  School  Histories." 


THE  PRIMER  (Introductory).     Price  15  cents. 

Beginning  with  the  Alphabet,  is  divided  into  Four  Parts,  and  extends  to  words 
of  four  letters. 

Part  I.,  the  Alphabet,  is  illustrated  much  more  beautifully  than  any  other 
Primer,  both  by  letters,  and  cuts  explanatory  of  the  words  in  the  Alphabetical 
arrangement.  Part  II.  contains  18  Reading  Lessons  of  words  of  two  letters,  ar- 
ranged in  simple  sentences.  No  unmeaning  syllables  are  given.  Part  III.  has 
26  Lessons,  of  words  of  not  more  than  three  letters.  Part  1 V.  has  21  Lessons,  of 
words  of  not  more  than  four  letters. 

Separate  "  Pronouncing  Lessons"  are  given,  containing  the  words  used  in  the 
Reading  Lessons.  To  guard  against  the  formation  of  a  monotonous  habit,  and 
as  a  guide  to  the  proper  modulations  of  the  voice,  the  conversational  style  is 
adopted  to  a  considerable  extent,  and  marks  are  given  to  denote  the  rising  and 
falling  inflections.  The  object  of  this  is  to  require  children  to  read  questions  and 
their  answers  in  the  same  manner  as  they  speak  them,  and  thus  to  lay  the  foun- 
dations of  good  reading  at  the  very  beginning. 

The  Primer  contains  more  than  a  hundred  beautiful  Illustrations. 

WILLSON'S   FIRST  READER.    Price  20  cents. 

Beginning  with  easy  words  of  four  letters  in  Part  I. ,  extends  to  easy  words  of 
six  letters  in  Parts  IV.  and  V.,  and  a  few  easy  words  of  two  and  three  syllables. 

In  this  work  also  the  conversational  style  is  frequently  introduced,  as  it  is  that 
which  is  capable  of  giving  the  greatest  variety  to  the  Heading  Lessons,  and  one 
that  easily  familiarizes  the  pupil  with  the  inflections,  and  shows  their  necessity. 
It  is  scarcely  possible  that  the  pupil  who  follows  the  simple  and  easy  system  herd 
marked  out,  can  afterward  fall  into  a  drawling  and  monotonous  habit  of  reading. 

The  Illustrations  are  numerous  and  superior. 

"WILLSON'S  SECOND   READER.     Price  30  cents. 

Is  divided  into  Seven  Parts,  each  preceded  by  one  or  more  Elocutionary  Rules, 
desiqwd  for  the  use  of  the  teacher  only,  and  to  enforce  upon  him  the  importance 
of  requiring  the  pupils  to  read  as  directed  by  the  inflections  given.  The  marks 
denoting  the  inflections  are  not  so  numerous  as  to  assume  an  unnecessary  im- 
portance, nor  are  they  used  except  where  it  would  be  a  manifest  error  to  disre- 
gard them.  The  elocutionary  aim  of  these  readers  is  to  teach  children  to  read 
correctly,  not  by  ruU,  but  by  Habit,  and  to  this  end  the  constant  practice  of 
reading  correctly  is  insisted  upon,  as  being  far  more  efficacious  than  Rules  to  cor- 
rect bad  habits  already  formed. 

Superior  illustrative  engravings  are  made  the  subjects  of  a  large  number  of  the 
Reading  Lessons  : — the  persons  represented,  their  actions,  supposed  sayings,  &c, 
are  made  available  to  give  animation  and  variety  to  the  reading,  and  to  impart 
instruction ;  and  the  principle  is  kept  in  view  that  in  childhood  it  is  through  the 
medium  of  the  perceptive  faculties  that  the  attention  is  the  most  readily  awak- 
ened, and  memory  and  judgment  the  most  successfully  cultivated. 

Part  VII.,  which  is  principally  designed  to  illustrate  the  principle  here  referred 
to,  contains  a  Lesson  on  Colors,  which  is  illustrated  by  a  beautiful  colored  plate, 
in  which  twenty  different  colors  are  accurately  designated. 


HARPERS  SERIES  OF  SCHOOL  AND  FAMILY  READERS. 

WILLSON'S   THIRD   READER.    Price  50  cents. 

Contains,  first,  a  brief  synopsis  of  the  "  Elements  of  Elocution,"  in  which  the 
44  Rules"  already  given  in  the  Second  Reader  are  repeated,  with  some  additions 
and  further  explanations,  and  more  numerous  examples.  Then  follows  Tart  I., 
entitled  "  Stories  from  the  Bible,"  in  which  some  of  the  most  interesting  inci- 
dents in  Sacred  History  are  narrated  in  simple  language,  with  various  illustra- 
tive poetical  selections,  to  give  variety  to  the  reading.  The  pictorial  illustrations 
to  this  Part  are  unsurpassed  in  any  work.  Part  II.,  entitled  "  Moral  Lessons," 
is  designed  to  inculcate  moral  truths,  and  is  made  up  mostly  of  selected  articles. 
Part  III.,  entering  upon  the  more  prominent  and  characteristic  features  of  the 
Series,  takes  up  the  first  great  division  of  Zoology  or  Animal  Life,  and  is  con- 
fined to  the  subject  of  the  Mammalia,  mostly  Quadrupeds.  Although  Quadru- 
peds are  here  arranged  in  their  scientific  divisions,  and  treated  upon  a  scientific 
basis,  yet  the  whole  is  made  as  interesting  as  a  romance.  Species  and  individu- 
als are  described  rather  than  genera;  incidents  illustrative  of  the  habits  and 
characteristics  of  animals  are  numerous ;  poetical  and  prose  selections  give  vari- 
ety to  the  Lessons  ;  and  the  illustrations  are  unsurpassed  in  any  work  on  Natural 
History.  A  new  and  important  feature  is  introduced — that  of  grouping  the  Ani- 
mals of  a  Class  in  one  engraving,  with  their  comparative  sizes,  and  a  scale  of 
measurement.    Part  IV.  is  made  up  of  Miscellaneous  Articles. 

"WILLSON'S  FOURTH  READER.    Price  66  cents. 

Contains,  first,  the  "  Elements  of  Elocution,"  the  same  as  the  Third  Reader, 
as  frequent  reference  is  made  to  the  Rules  thi-oughout  the  work.  Part  I.  treats 
of  "  Human  Physiology  and  Health"  in  a  series  of  interesting  Reading  Lessons, 
original  and  selected,  which  exclude  scientific  technicalities.  Explanatory  Notes, 
with  accompanying  illustrative  cuts,  convey  much  additional  useful  information 
that  could  not  well  be  introduced  into  the  Reading  Lessons.  Part  II.  resumes 
the  subject  of  Zoology  in  the  division  which  treats  of  Ornithology  or  Birds.  A 
delightful  field  is  here  opened,  and  nothing  can  be  more  interesting  than  the 
manner  in  which  the  subject  is  treated.  The  leading  species  of  the  several 
Classes  or  Orders  into  which  Birds  are  divided,  are  grouped  in  cuts  which  shew 
their  relative  sizes  ;  and  many  of  the  most  beautiful  poetic  gems  in  our  language 
accompany  and  illustrate  the  descriptive  portions,  and  the  incidents  narrated. 
Part  III.  takes  up  the  First  Division  of  Vegetable  Physiology  or  Potany,  and 
gives  to  the  subject  an  interest  and  variety  that  can  not  be  appreciated  from  any 
description  that  can  be  given.  Part  IV.  is  made  up  of  Miscellaneous  Selections. 
Part  V.  takes  up  the  First  Division  of  Natural  Philosophy,  in  which  we  look  in 
upon  the  school  at  "  Glenwild,"  and  listen  to  the  instructions  given  to  a  "  Vol- 
unteer Philosophy  Class,"  and  the  conversations  which  are  held  there. 

In  all  the  Readers  after  the  Second  the  more  difficult  words  in  each  Lesson 
have  small  figures,  as  references,  attached  to  them,  and  are  defined,  as  referred 
to,  at  the  close  of  the  Lesson. 

The  remaining  numbers  of  the  Series,  which  will  embrace,  in  the  form  of  prac- 
tical, varied,  and  interesting  Reading  Lessons,  the  several  departments  of  Nat- 
ural History— Zoology,  Physiology,  Physical  Geography,  Chemistry,  Geology, 
Astronomy,  &c,  &c— and  also,  in  the  Seventh  Reader,  such  subjects  as  Rhet- 
oric, Criticism,  Taste,  Oratory,  Sculpture  and  Painting,  Music,  &c—  all  popu- 
larized to  the  capacities  of  the  various  grades  of  pupils  for  whom  they  are  de- 
signed— will  be  completed  at  an  early  day. 

(Rjp  The  three  leading  points  of  merit  claimed  for  these  Readers  are: 

1st,  They  will  prove  exceedingly  interesting  to  all. 

2d,  Being  adapted  to  form  habits  of  correct  reading  at  the  very  beginning  of  the 
pupil's  course,  they  will  secure  the  highest  degree  of  practical  Instruction  in 
the  Art  of  Reading. 

3d,  They  will  impart  a  great  amount  of  Usrftxl  Information,  which,  in  no 
other  way,  can  be  brought  before  the  great  mass  of  the  children  in  our  schools. 

Published  by  HARPER   &  BROTHERS, 

Franklin  Square,  New  York. 


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Incomparably  the  best  Work  on  the  Subject. 


DEAPER'S  PHYSIOLOGY. 

HUMAN  PHYSIOLOGY,  STATICAL  AND  DY- 
NAMICAL ;  or,  The  Conditions  and  Course  of  the 
Life  of  Man :  being  the  Text  of  the  Lectures  delivered 
in  the  Medical  Department  of  the  University.  By  John 
W.  Draper,  M.D.,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Chemistry  and 
Physiology  in  the  University  of  New  York.  Illustrated 
by  nearly  300  fine  Wood-cuts  from  Photographs.  8vo, 
650  pages,  Sheep,  $4  25. 

The  favorable  reception  which  has  been  given  to  this  book  by  the 
Public  and  the  Medical  Profession,  both  in  America  and  Eurdpe, 
proves  how  completely  it  has  accomplished  its  object  of  bringing  the 
science  on  which  it  treats  to  the  comprehension  of  the  general  read- 
er, without  any  sacrifice  of  its  high  scientific  position.  As  a  repre- 
sentation of  the  present  state  of  Physiology,  embodying  all  the  re- 
cent foreign  discoveries  in  a  form  not  otherwise  accessible  to  the 
student,  it  has,  in  less  than  a  year,  been  adopted  as  a  text-book  in 
a  majority  of  American  Colleges. 

Great,  however,  as  its  success  in  that  respect  has  been,  the  favor 
extended  to  it  by  the  reading  and  educated  classes  generally  is  still 
more  striking.  They  have  appreciated  the  manner  in  which  it 
brings  knowledge  on  a  subject  of  the  highest  importance  to  the 
well-being  of  society  to  the  easy  comprehension  of  persons  not  fa- 
miliar with  medical  matters.  They  have  found  it  to  be  a  book  not 
alone  adapted  to  the  University  or  College,  but  suited  to  the  in- 
struction of  every  head  of  a  family.  The  numerous  Photographic 
engravings  it  contains  tend  greatly  to  a  clear  illustration  of  the  va- 
rious topics  it  discusses,  enabling  those  who  have  only  the  opportu- 
nity of  casual  study  to  follow  the  Author  in  his  descriptions  without 
any  difficulty. 

Of  all  the  sciences,  none  comes  more  closely  home  to  us  than 
Physiology.  It  explains  to  us  how  "  fearfully  and  wonderfully  we 
are  made,"  teaches  us  how  the  various  parts  of  our  system  act  in  a 
state  of  health,  and  enables  us  to  understand  the  causes  of  our  ail- 
ments and  diseases.  There  is  no  class  of  society,  and,  indeed,  no 
individual,  who  may  not  profitably  become  acquainted  with  it.  It 
is  therefore  to  the  general  reader,  as  well  as  to  the  profession,  that 
this  book  is  offered. 

Published  by  HARPER    &   BROTHERS, 

Franklin    Square,  New  York. 


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COMPLETION  OP  GROTE'S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE. 


A   HISTORY   OF   GREECE, 

FROM  THE  EARLIEST  PERIOD  TO  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  GENERA- 
TION  CONTEMPORARY  WITH  ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT. 

BY  GEORGE  GROTE,  ESQ. 

Vol.  XII.  contains  Portrait,  Maps,  and  Index.     Complete  in  12  vols.  12mo, 
Muslin,  $9  00  ;  Sheep,  $12  00  ;  Half  Calf,  $15  00. 

It  is  not  often  that  a  work  of  such  magnitude  is  undertaken  ;  more  seldom  still 
is  such  a  work  so  perseveringly  carried  on,  and  so  soon  and  yet  so  worthily  ac- 
complished. Mr.  Grote  has  illustrated  and  invested  with  an  entirely  new  signifi- 
cance a  portion  of  the  past  history  of  humanity,  which  he,  perhaps,  thinks  the  most 
splendid  that  has  been,  and  which  all  allow  to  have  been  very  splendid.  He  has  made 
great  Greeks  live  again  before  us,  and  has  enabled  us  to  realize  Greek  modes  of  think- 
ing. He  has  added  a  great  historical  work  to  the  language,  taking  its  place  with 
other  great  histories,  and  yet  not  like  any  of  them  in  the  special  combination  of 
merits  which  it  exhibits  :  scholarship  and  learning  such  as  we  have  been  ac- 
customed to  demand  only  in  Germans  ;  an  art  of  grouping  and  narration  diflerent 
from"  that  of  Hume,  different  from  that  of  Gibbon,  and  yet  producing  the  effect  of 
sustained  charm  and  pleasure  ;  a  peculiarly  keen  interest  in  events  of  the  political 
order,  and  a  wide  knowledge  of  the  business  of  politics  ;  and,  finally,  harmonizing 
all,  a  spirit  of  sober  philosophical  generalization  always  tending  to  view  facts 
collectively  in  their  speculative  bearing  as  well  as  to  record  them  individually. 
It  is  at  once  an  ample  and  detailed  narrative  of  the  history  of  Greece,  and  a  lucid 
philosophy  of  Grecian  history. —  London  Athenaeum,  March  8,  1856. 

Mr.  Grote  will  be  emphatically  the  historian  of  the  people  of  Greece.— Dublin 
University  Magazine. 

The  acute  intelligence,  the  discipline,  faculty  of  intellect,  and  the  excellent  eru- 
dition every  one  would  look  for  from  Mr.  Grote  ;  but  they  will  here  also  find  the 
element  which  harmonizes  these,  and  without  which,  on  such  a  theme,  an  orderly 
and  solid  work  could  not  have  been  written. — Examiner. 

A  work  second  to  that  of  Gibbon  alone  in  English  historical  literature.  Mr. 
Grote  gives  the  philosophy  as  well  as  the  facts  ot  history,  and  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find  an  author  combining  in  the  same  degree  the  accurate  learning  of  the  schol- 
ar with  the  experience  of  a  practical  statesman.  The  completion  of  this  great 
work  may  well  be  hailed  with  some  degree  of  national  pride  and  satisfaction. — 
Literary  Gazette,  March  8,  1856. 

The  better  acquainted  any  one  is  with  Grecian  history,  and  with  the  manner  in 
which  that  history  has  heretofore  been  written,  the  higher  will  be  his  estimation 
of  this  work.  Mr.  Grote's  familiarity  both  with  the  great  highways  and  the  ob- 
scurest by-paths  of  Grecian  literature  and  antiquity  has  seldom  been  equaled,  and 
not  often  approached,  in  unlearned  England ;  while  those  Germans  who  have  ri- 
valed it  have  seldom  possessed  the  quality  which  eminently  characterizes  Mr. 
Grote,  of  keeping  historical  imagination  severely  under  the  restraints  of  evidence. 
The  great  charm  of  Mr.  Grote's  history  has  been  throughout  the  cordial  admira' 
tion  he  feels  for  the  people  whose  acts  and  fortunes  he  has  to  relate.  *  *  We  bid 
Mr.  Grote  farewell ;  heartily  congratulating  him  on  the  conclusion  of  a  work  which 
is  a  monument  of  English  learning,  of  English  clear-sightedness,  and  of  English 
love  of  freedom  and  the  characters  it  produces. — Spectator. 

Endeavor  to  become  acquainted  with  Mr.  Grote,  who  is  engaged  on  a  Greek 
History.  I  expect  a  great  deal  from  this  production.— Niebuhb,  the  Historian, 
to  Professor  Lieber. 

The  author  has  now  incontcstably  won  for  himself  the  title,  not  merely  of  a 
historian,  but  of  the  historian  of  Greece. — Quarterly  Review. 

Mr.  Grote  is,  beyond  all  question,  the  historian  of  Greece,  unrivaled,  so  far  as 
we  know,  in  the  erudition  and  genius  with  which  he  has  revived  the  picture  of  a 
distant  past,  and  brought  home  every  part  and  feature  of  its  history  to  our  intel- 
lects and  our  hearts. — London  Times. 

For  becoming  dignity  of  style,  unforced  adaptation  of  results  to  principles,  care- 
ful verification  of  theory  by  fact,  and  impregnation  of  fact  by  theory— for  extensive 
and  well-weighed  learning,  employed  with  intelligence  and  taste,  we  have  seen  no 
historical  work  of  modern  times  which  we  would  place  above  Mr.  Grote's  histo- 
ry.— Morning  Chronicle. 

HARPER  &.  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE,  N.  Y. 


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LIDDELL  AND  SMITH'S 

SCHOOL  HISTORIES  OF 

GREECE    AND    ROME. 


DR.  SMITH'S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE. 

A  School  History  of  Greece,  from  the  Earliest  Times  to  the  Ro- 
man Conquest,  with  Supplementary  Chapters  on  the  History 
of  Literature  and  Art.     By  Wm.  Smith,  LL.D.,  Classical  Ex- 
aminer in  the  University  of  London,  and  Editor  of  the  "Class- 
ical Dictionaries."     Revised,  with  an  Appendix,  by  George 
W.  Greene,  A.M.     Illustrated  by  100  Engravings  on  Wood. 
(Uniform  with  "Liddell's  Rome"  and  "The  Student's  Gib- 
bon.")   New  Edition.     679  pages,  Large  12mo,  Muslin,  $1  00. 
We  have  much  satisfaction  in  hearing  testimony  to  the  excellence  of  the  plan 
on  which  Dr.  Wm.  Smith  has  proceeded,  and  the  careful,  scholar-like  manner 
in  which  he  has  carried  it  out.     The  great  distinctive  feature,  however,  is  the 
chapters  on  Literature  and  Art.     This  gives  it  a  decided  advantage  over  all  pre- 
vious works  of  the  kind. — Athenaeum. 


DEAN  LIDDELL'S  HISTORY  OF  ROME. 

A  School  History  of  Rome,  from  the  Earliest  Times  to  the  Estab- 
lishment of  the  Empire,  with  Chapters  on  the  History  of  Liter- 
ature and  Art.  By  Henry  G.  Liddell,  D.D.,  Dean  of  Christ 
Church,  Oxford.  Illustrated  by  numerous  Wood-cuts.  (Uni- 
form with  "The  Student's  Gibbon"  and  "Smith's  History  of 
Greece.")  778  pages,  Large  12mo,  Muslin,  $1  00. 
This  excellent  History  of  Rome,  from  the  pen  of  one  of  the  most  celebrated 

scholars  of  the  day,  will  supersede  every  other  work  on  the  subject    The  volume 

conforms  with  the  "History  of  Greece,"  by  Dr.  Wm.  Smith,  in  typography, 

literary  method,  and  illustration. — John  BulL 


DR.  SMITH'S  STUDENT'S  GIBBON. 

The  History  of  the  Decline  and  Eall  of  the  Roman  Empire.  By 
Edward  Gibbon.  Abridged.  Incorporating  the  Researches 
of  Recent  Commentators.  By  William  Smith,  LL.D.,  Editor 
of  the  "  Classical  Dictionary"  and  "  A  Dictionary  of  Greek  and 
Roman  Antiquities."  Illustrated  by  100  Engravings  on  Wood. 
(Uniform  with  "  Liddell's  Rome.")  705  pages,  Large  12mo, 
Muslin,  $1  00. 
Dr.  Wm.  Smith  has  drawn  up  an  admirable  abridgment  of  Gibbon's  Roman 

Empire,  using,  as  far  as  possible,  the  language  of  the  original,  and  adopting  the 

Elan  of  omitting  or  treating  briefly  circumstances  of  inferior  importance,  so  that 
be  grand  events  which  have  influenced  the  history  of  the  world  may  be  nar- 
rated  at  length.— Cambridge  Chronicle. 

Published  by  HARPER    &    BROTHERS, 

Franklin    Square,  New  York. 


THE 

LAND  AND  THE  BOOK; 

OE, 

BIBLICAL  ILLUSTRATIONS  DRAWN  FROM  THE  MANNERS 

AND  CUSTOMS,  THE  SCENES  AND  SCENERY  OF 

THE  HOLY  LAND. 

By  W.  M.  THOMSON,  D.D., 

Twenty-five  Years  a  Missionary  of  the  A.B.C.F.M.  in  Syria  and  Palestine. 

With  two  elaborate  Maps  of  Palestine,  an  accurate  Plan  of  Jeru- 
salem, and  several  hundred  Engravings  representing  the  Scenery, 
Topography,  and  Productions  of  the  Holy  Land,  and  the  Cos- 
tumes, Manners,  and  Habits  of  the  People.  Two  elegant  Large 
12mo  Volumes,  Muslin,  $3  50 ;  Half  Calf,  $5  20. 

The  Land  of  the  Bible  is  part  of  the  Divine  Revelation.  It  bears 
testimony  essential  to  faith,  and  gives  lessons  invaluable  in  exposi- 
tion. Both  have  been  written  all  over  the  fair  face  of  Palestine, 
and  deeply  graven  there  by  the  finger  of  God  in  characters  of  living 
light.  To  collect  this  testimony  and  popularize  these  lessons  for 
the  biblical  student  of  every  age  and  class  is  the  prominent  design 
of  this  work.  For  twenty-Jive  years  the  Author  has  been  permitted 
to  read  the  Book  by  the  light  which  the  Land  sheds  upon  it ;  and 
he  now  hands  over  this  friendly  torch  to  those  who  have  not  been 
thus  favored.  In  this  attempt  the  pencil  has  been  employed  to  aid 
the  pen.  A  large  number  of  pictorial  illustrations  are  introduced, 
many  of  them  original,  and  all  giving  a  genuine  and  true  represen- 
tation of  things  in  the  actual  Holy  Land  of  the  present  day.  They 
are  not  fancy  sketches  of  imaginary  scenes  thrown  in  to  embellish 
the  page,  but  pictures  of  living  manners,  studies  of  sacred  topogra- 
phy, or  exponents  of  interesting  biblical  allusions,  which  will  add 
greatly  to  the  value  of  the  work. 

Published  ly  HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 

Franklin  Square,  New  Yorh 


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part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  Money. 


By  William  C.  Prime. 


Boat  Life  in  Egypt  &  Nubia. 

Boat  Life  in  Egypt  and  Nubia.  By  William  C.  Prime,  Au- 
thor of  "The  Old  House  by  the  River,"  "Later  Years," 
&c.     Illustrations.      i2mo,  Muslin,  $i  25. 


Tent  Life  in  the  Holy  Land. 

By  William  C.  Prime,  Author  of  "  The  Old  House  by  the 
River,"  "  Later  Years,"  &c.  Illustrations.  1 2mo,  Mus- 
lin, $1  25. 


The  Old  House  by  the  River. 

By  William  C.  Prime,  Author  of  the  "  Owl  Creek  Letters.' 
i2mo,  Muslin,  75  cents. 


Later  Years. 

By  William  C.  Prime,  Author  of  "  The  Old  House  by  the 
River."     i2mo,  Muslin,  $1  00. 


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DICKENS  AND  BONNER'S 
CHILD'S    HISTORIES. 


BOOKS  FOR  TIIE  FIRESIDE,  THE  SCHOOL-ROOM,  AND  THE  FAMILY 
AND  SCHOOL  LIBRARY.     COMPRISING 

A  Child's  History  of  England.  By  Charles  Dickens. 
2  vols.  16mo,  Muslin,  GO  cents. 

A  Child's  History  of  the  United  States.  By  Jonx 
Bonner.     Illustrated.     2  vols.  16mo,  Muslin,  $1  00. 

A  Child's  History  of  Rome.  By  John  Bonner.  Illus- 
trated.    2  vols.  16mo,  Muslin,  $1  00. 

A  Child's  History  of  Greece.  By  John  Bonner.  Illus- 
trated.    2  vols.  lGmo,  Muslin,  $1  00. 

These  works  present  the  leading  facts  of  history  in  the  form  of  stories,  which 
children  will  read  for  the  pleasure  they  afford.  The  histories  of  Rome  and 
Greece  are  written  from  an  American  point  of  view. 

Capital  little  volumes.  Though  written  in  a  simple  and  artless  style  to  cap- 
tivate juvenile  students  of  history,  they  are  not  devoid  of  a  philosophical  spirit 
to  prompt  reflection. — Christian  Register. 

For  writings  intended  for  juvenile  readers  Mr.  Bonner's  style  is  a  models 
sweet,  flowing,  animated,  with  a  liberal  use  of  colloquial  expressions. — X.  Y. 
Tribune. 

Good  books  for  the  school  and  family  library.—  N.  Y.  Observer. 

History  presented  in  such  a  shape  as  to  possess  all  the  charms  of  a  romance.—. 
New  Orleans  Crescent. 

Bonner's  Child's  History  of  Rome  is  the  best  in  the  market  for  young  readers. 
— Church  Journal. 

A  remarkably  successful  effort  at  adapting  a  historical  narrative  to  the  tastes 
of  youthful  readers. — Presbyterian. 

Mr.  Bonner  writes  with  freedom  and  force,  avoiding  verbosity  and  pedantry, 
and  a  child  of  five  or  a  man  of  seventy  can  alike  understand  his  meaning. — X. 
Y.  Daily  Times. 

Written  with  simplicity,  and  in  a  manner  to  engage  the  attention  of  youthful 
readers.— N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

We  welcome  these  volumes  with  most  sincere  pleasure.  They  have  a  perma- 
nent value,  and  are  fitting  companions  for  that  beautiful  Child's  History  of  En- 
gland, by  Dickens. — St.  Louis  Republican. 

The  press  can  not  teem  with  too  many  just  such  books.— Savannah  Georgian. 

Mr.  Bonner  excels  as  a  historian  for  the  young.  His  simple,  vigorous  style, 
absence  of  profound  reflections,  and  power  of  condensing,  by  grasping  the  prom- 
inent points  and  leaving  out  minor  incidents,  admirably  fit  him  for  a  task  lik« 
the  present.—  Boston  Journal. 

Published  by  HARPER    &    BROTHERS, 

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BY  CATHAKINE  E.  BEECHER. 


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THE  OLD  REGIME 

AND 

THE    REVOLUTION. 

BY 

ALEXIS  DE  TOCQUEVILLE, 

OF  THE  ACADEMIE  FRANCAISE,  AUTHOR  OF  "  DEMOCRACY  IN  AMERICA.' 
TRANSLATED  BY 


JOHN    BONNER,    ESQ. 

12mo,  Muslin,  $1  00. 

A  calm,  philosophical  inquiry  into  the  causes  of  the  French  Revolution,  and 
the  working  of  the  Old  Regime.  In  this  work,  M.  de  Tocqueville  has  daguerreo- 
typed  French  political  society  under  the  old  monarchy  ;  shown  us  where  the  real 
power  lay,  and  how  it  affected  individual  Frenchmen  in  the  daily  avocations  of 
life ;  what  was  the  real  condition  of  the  nobility,  of  the  clergy,  of  the  middle 
classes,  of  the  "people,"  of  the  peasantry  ;  wherein  France  differed  from  all  other 
countries  in  Europe ;  why  a  Revolution  was  inevitable.  The  information  de- 
rived under  these  various  heads,  it  may  safely  be  said,  is  now  first  printed.  It 
has  been  obtained,  as  M.  de  Tocqueville  informs  us,  mainly  from  the  manuscript 
records  of  the  old  intendants'  offices  and  the  Council  of  State.  Of  the  labor  de- 
voted to  the  task,  an  idea  may  be  formed  from  the  author's  statement,  that  more 
than  one  of  the  thirty  odd  chapters  contained  in  the  volume,  alone  cost  him  a 
year's  researches. 

"  I  trust,"  says  M.  de  Tocqueville  in  hia  Preface,  "  that  I  have  written  this 
work  without  prejudice ;  but  I  can  not  say  I  have  written  without  feeling.  It 
would  be  scarcely  proper  for  a  Frenchman  to  be  calm  when  he  speaks  of  his 
country,  and  thinks  of  the  times  in  which  we  live.  I  acknowledge,  therefore, 
that  in  studying  the  society  of  the  Old  Regime  in  all  its  details,  I  have  never  lost 
sight  of  the  society  of  our  own  day." 

The  work  abounds  with  allusions  to  the  Empire  and  the  Emperor.  It  need 
hardly  be  added,  that  these  allusions  are  not  eulogistic  of  the  powers  that  bo. 
Napoleon  has  seldom  been  assailed  with  more  pungent  satire  or  more  cogent 
logic. 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE,  N.  Y. 


WOMAN  S  RECORD ; 


Or,  Sketches  of  all  Distinguished  "Women  from  the  Creation  to  the 
Present  Time.  Arranged  in  Four  Eras.  With  Selections  from 
Female  Writers  of  each  Era.  By  Mrs.  Sarah  Josepha  Hale. 
Illustrated  with  230  engraved  Portraits.  Second  Edition,  re- 
vised and  enlarged.  Koyal  8vo,  Muslin,  $3  50 ;  Sheep,  $-4  00; 
Half  Calf,  $4  25. 

"  Many  years  have  been  devoted  to  the  preparation  of  this  comprehensive  work, 
which  contains  complete  and  accurate  sketches  of  the  most  distinguished  wome~ 
in  all  ages,  and,  in  extent  and  thoroughness,  far  surpasses  every  previous  bio. 
graphical  collection  with  a  similar  aim.  Mrs.  Hale  has  ransacked  the  treasures 
of  history  for  information  in  regard  to  the  eminent  women  whom  it  commemor- 
ates ;  few,  if  any,  important  names  are  omitted  in  her  volumes,  while  the  living 
celebrities  of  the  day  are  portrayed  with  justness  and  delicacy.  The  picture  of 
woman's  life,  as  it  has  been  developed  from  the  times  of  the  earliest  traditions  to 
the  present  date,  is  here  displayed  in  vivid  and  impressive  colors,  and  with  a 
living  sympathy  which  could  only  flow  from  a  feminine  pen.  A  judicious  selec- 
tion from  the  writings  of  women  who  have  obtained  distinction  in  the  walks  of 
literature  is  presented,  affording  an  opportunity  for  comparing  the  noblest  produc- 
tions of  the  female  mind,  and  embracing  many  exquisite  gems  of  fancy  and  feel- 
ing. The  biographies  are  illustrated  by  a  series  of  highly-finished  engravings, 
which  form  a  gallery  of  portraits  of  curious  interest  to  the  amateur,  as  well  as  of 
great  historical  value. 

This  massive  volume  furnishes  an  historical  portrait  gallery,  in  which  each  age 
of  this  world  had  its  appropriate  representatives.  Mrs.  Hale  has  succeeded  ad- 
mirably in  her  biographical  sketches. — Philadelphia  Presbyterian. 

"  Woman's  Record"  is,  indeed,  a  noble  study  and  noble  history.  The  sketches 
are  all  carefully  and  even  elegantly  written. — Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin. 

What  lady,  who  takes  a  pride  in  her  sex,  would  not  desire  to  have  this  volume 
on  her  centre-table  1  and  what  husband,  lover,  or  brother  would  leave  such  a  wish 
ungratified. — Washington  Republic. 

This  superb  monument  of  Mrs.  Hale's  indefatigable  devotion  to  her  sex  is  illus- 
trated by  230  portraits,  engraved  in  that  style  of  excellence  that  has  deservedly 
placed  Lossing  at  the  head  of  his  profession. — Philadelphia  Saturday  Courier. 

We  are  pleased  with  the  plan  of  the  "  Record,"  and  with  the  manner  in  which 
that  plan  is  carried  into  execution.    The  book  is  a  valuable  and  permanent  con- 
tribution to  literature. — Xcw  Orleans  Baptist  Chronicle. 
This  work  merits  the  warmest  commendation. — Sun. 

This  is  a  large  and  beautiful  book,  and  covers  the  ground  marked  out  by  the  title 
more  fully  and  satisfactorily  than  any  other  work  extant.  It  is  a  most  valuable 
work. — Southern  Ladies'  Companion. 

Here  we  have  placed  before  us  a  book  that  would  do  credit  to  any  author  or 
compiler  that  ever  lived,  and,  to  the  astonishment  of  some,  produced  by  the  head, 
heart,  and  hand  of  a  woman. — N.  Y.  Daily  Times. 

This  is  a  very  curious  and  very  interesting  work— a  Biographical  Dictionary  of 
all  Distinguished  Females— a  work,  we  believe,  quite  unique  in  the  history  of 
literature.  We  have  only  to  say  that  the  work  will  be  found  both  instructive, 
amusing,  and  generally  impartial.— London  Ladies'1  Messenger. 

The  comprehensiveness  of  the  work  renders  it  a  valuable  addition  to  the  library. 
— London  Ladies'1  Companion. 

A  Female  Biographical  Dictionary,  which  this  volume  really  is,  will  often  be 
consulted  as  an  authority  ;  and  the  great  extent  of  Mrs.  Hale's  information  as  to 
the  distinguished  women  of  modern  times,  supplies  us  with  a  number  of  facts 
which  we  knew  not  where  to  procure  elsewhere.  It  is  clearly  and  simply  written. 
^-London  Gardian. 


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